


You're a ghost town I'm too patriotic to leave

by dwellingondreams



Series: Ghost Town [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Betty Cooper, Anxiety, Archie Andrews & Betty Cooper Friendship, Archie Andrews Needs a Hug, Bad Parenting, Bullying, Canon Rewrite, Cheryl Blossom Needs a Hug, Depression, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Language, Gangs, Gen, High School, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, Mental Health Issues, Misogyny, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, POV Alternating, POV Archie Andrews, POV Betty Cooper, POV Cheryl Blossom, POV Jughead Jones, POV Veronica Lodge, Protective Betty Cooper, Protective Jughead Jones, Protective Veronica Lodge, Racism, Racist Language, Recreational Drug Use, Rewrite, Sad Archie Andrews, Sexism, Sexist Language, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slut Shaming, Small Towns, Statutory Rape, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Suspense, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teen Angst, Teen Pregnancy, Teenage Drama, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-04-25 17:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 40
Words: 97,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14383788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwellingondreams/pseuds/dwellingondreams
Summary: "I stay because you’re the beginning of the dream I want to remember." - Warsan Shire“Riverdale Police, what is your emergency?”“This is Jughead Jones at the Sweetwater,” Jughead says hoarsely, looking from Moose, who is still puking, to Kevin, who has dropped down into a crouch, to Archie, who is staring into the depths of the river as if something, or someone is staring back at him, “by the intersection of French Street and Eden Lane. We just found Jason Blossom’s body.”The sirens can be heard from the police station four blocks away mere moments later.(A mild turned major canon rewrite.)





	1. Chapter 1

Cheryl leans against the car door and tries not to cry. The breeze is pricking at her eyelashes, and she can see the heat rising off the road. Jason is driving stiffly, both hands on the wheel. He always drives like this. He’s not confident behind the wheel. He failed his test on the first try because of nerves, and Daddy had humiliated him at dinner that night over it. 

“You’re twitchy,” he’d told Jason, not sneeringly, but frankly, which was somehow worse, because you could tell he really meant it, wasn’t just saying it to make Jason feel badly- “If you can’t even handle yourself behind the wheel of a car, I don’t see how I can expect you to manage the business-,”

There was a clatter of silverware as Jason threw down his fork and knife, got up from the table, and silently walked out of the dining room. Cheryl had jumped up to follow him, but one hiss of “Cheryl Marjorie,” from her mother brought her back into her seat. Still, as a sign of support, she’d refused to touch another thing on her plate all night, while Daddy and Mother made polite small talk about their days.

They always do this. Act as though everything is fine when it isn’t. It makes Cheryl want to scream. Sometime she does. Into her pillow. In the wine cellar. In the attic. In her father’s face. He used to laugh, when she was a little girl. Her tantrums were amusing, her habit of shrieking herself hoarse, holding her breath until she turned purple, and throwing herself on the floor entertaining, so long as they didn’t have company. Sometimes he’d even coolly goad her, on staring down at her as she slammed her small fists into the thick Persian rugs.

Then she grew up, but the tantrums and the shrieking and the thrashing stayed. The last time it happened Daddy dragged her by the hair, screaming, into the bathroom and turned on the cold shower before shoving her under it while she hissed and spat like a cat. Mother followed after him, wavering between displeasure and drunkenness. Jason came bursting into the bathroom, but Daddy had already turned the water off and left her sopping wet and weeping in the shower. 

Jason had shouldered past him roughly, and for a brief moment something like wariness had flickered on Daddy’s face. Like he’d just registered that Jason, who’d surpassed six feet over the course of his junior year, might become something of a threat to his position as the family patriarch. Might already be a threat. “Your sister needs some time to calm down,” he’d said coldly.

“Get OUT,” Jason had snarled in response, and Mother had tugged Daddy out of the bathroom. 

Cheryl would suffer a thousand freezing showers just to be held by her brother the way he held her then, chin resting on her cold head, rocking gently back and forth. He’d let her sleep in his room that night. She borrowed one of shirts and a pair of Riverdale High sweatpants and at some point during the night, their legs had tangled together. When she’d woken up the next morning, he was already out of bed.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you two,” Daddy had said curtly at that dinner, when he set down his napkin at last, the signal that the meal was over. “We should have sent you both away to board. That public school is ruining you. Him with that,” he’d stammered for a moment, it ran in the family, all the men stammered when upset, “that Cooper girl- thank God that’s over- and you-,” his lip had curled slightly as he looked over Cheryl, who was glowering prettily at her plate. “You should be somewhere with a dress code, prancing around in those short skirts-,”

“Clifford,” Mother had said sharply, putting down her glass of Merlot. “That’s enough. Cheryl, darling, go to bed.”

Cheryl hadn’t had to be told twice. She’d sprang up from her seat, smoothing down her skirt, and tossed her red curls over her shoulder as she stalked out. She’d knocked on Jason’s door, but it’d been locked, and when she picked it open with a stray bobby pin a few minutes later, his bed was empty and his window was wide open, curtains billowing in the night air.

Jason had gotten his license on his second try, the same day Cheryl took her test. She likes that better, the sense that he couldn’t have done it without her presence. The feeling that he needed her. He isn’t looking at her now; he never likes to talk while driving. Eyes on the road, back straight, hands white-knuckled. She glances at the radio. It’s a quarter to six. After fiddling with the dial, she settles back in passive interest, taking in the singer’s croon.

“You like this kind of stuff,” she murmurs, trailing her fingers out the window. She can smell the river now, see glimpses of blue through the trees. The woods are beautiful in July, before the real heat of the summer settles in, cloying and oppressive. Right now there’s almost a chill in the air, with the sky still pale. It’s going to be a beautiful day. It should be a beautiful day. 

She loves the summer time, loves the days that stretch on and on, sweet-smelling and heady. She and Jason used to spend hours at a time playing in the shadow of the manor, chasing each other through the grounds. They haven’t done that in a long time. Mother says it’s not appropriate for them to spend hours at a time together, that it’s unnatural. They’re growing up, they’re not children anymore. They’re seventeen now. Jason is a young man, and she is a young lady. Mother thinks many things are unnatural. Most of them concern Cheryl. 

“Neil Young,” he says after a moment, and then she sees him give a small smile out of the corner of her eye. “Down by the river, I shot my baby, down by the river…” He has a pleasant, clear singing voice. He did choir in middle school with her, before they both dropped out. Jason loves music. Daddy doesn’t really approve. Says people will get the wrong impression, think his son, the Blossom heir, is some kind of faggot.

But that’s not a word for polite company, is it? And Jason plays so beautifully, with real passion. Mother always said he was her sweet, sensitive little boy, quick to smile, to laugh, to cry. Cheryl was always quick to rage, to scream, to throw things. She knows Mother wishes, often, that Cheryl had not slipped into the world mere minutes after her brother. How much easier all their lives would be. They don’t need her. She’s not necessary. Jason is all Daddy and Mother have ever wanted. Their perfect, porcelain son. 

Even if they’re still upset with him for sullying himself with that… that Cooper slut. Daddy referred to her as that in front of Mother, who simply nodded. Cheryl doesn’t like to think about her brother’s sex life. She doesn’t like to think about Jason and anyone, nevermind a girl like Polly Cooper. Round-faced, soft, simpering Polly, with her lank blonde hair and her watery green eyes and her whining. Cheryl thinks Polly would be easy to loathe even if she hadn’t wormed her way into Jason’s life. 

“I thought she was supposed to be a fling,” she’d spat at him once. “Don’t tell me you actually- you actually _like_ her, or something, Jason, because that’s- you can’t seriously want to be with _Polly Cooper_ ,” she’d gave a short, shrill laugh of disbelief.

Jason had paced away from her in frustration, running his hands through his hair. “It’s none of your business who I'm with, Cher.” It was about as cold as he’d ever been with her, and as hypocritical. Jason is viciously protective of her, and everyone knows it. Boys are intimidated by Cheryl, but they’re terrified of her brother. She’s always liked that, that someone as seemingly fragile and fine-boned as Jason can still inspire fear, even if it’s only triggered by the dark, hollow look he sometimes gets.

Jason loves many things. She knows he loves her, but she worries that she is just part of the treasured collection of things her brother has deigned to love. The piano, polo, Neil Young, rowing, golf, freshly cut grass, tennis, Alfred Hitchcock, chess, target shooting, strawberry lemonade, Polly, vanilla milkshakes with fries, bourbon, Fleetwood Mac, white polo shirts, boat shoes, counting the freckles on her legs, Chopin, stargazing, swimming, cats, Cheryl...

“Dead, oh, shot her dead,” Cheryl whispers under her breath, and he stops singing abruptly. She feels as though she’s ruined it; she has a bad habit of that. Ruining the moment. Ruining Jason. Ruining herself. She ruins everything. It’s what she does. She is constantly picking everything apart, be it food or clothes or words or people. She picks her skin open constantly, and Jason has always been there to pull her close to him and gently press a bandaid down on the open wound. 

Jason visibly relaxes as they pull up along the river bank. Its steady rushing almost drowns out the radio. He puts the Chrysler Imperial in park, and leans back into his seat with a small sigh, blowing errant strands of hair out of his thin, solemn face. Cheryl feels that the heat is more pronounced now, pricking at her skin. Her hair is long and thick down her back. Soon sweat will collect on her scalp. Jason is pristine and porcelain, although if they sit in the sun for much longer he’ll start to pinken, then turn tomato red.

Cheryl’s twin brother is beautiful, although she knows not everyone would agree. The looks that make her distinct and striking, the dark red hair and long lashes, the marble pale skin, they all make him odd, although Mother has always said he’s very handsome, even more so than Daddy was when he was Jason’s age. She studies her brother’s Adam’s apple, bobbing gently in his long, swan-like neck. He’s like something out of an oil painting, refined and timeless. He belongs to a different time. His hair is feathery, and has a coppery glint in the sunshine. She imagines it’s like a halo around his head.

“Are you scared?” she asks. She prays he says yes, that this is stupid, that he starts the car again and they drive home, or not, that they never go home again- they could leave town right now and never look back. Nevermind that they’re both seventeen. They won’t be seventeen forever. The summer can’t last forever. 

He glances over her and smiles bravely. The radio is still playing.

_Yeah, she could drag me over the rainbow, send me away, down by the river I shot my baby, down by the river, dead, oh, shot her dead…_

Later, Cheryl reflects, as she makes her way to the shore, straggling in the water, sundress sticking to her legs, that it’d been a stupid question. Jason is never scared. Jason has always been the brave one. Cheryl, on the other hand, lives in a constant state of paralyzing terror. Luckily, she’s grown numb to it, and learned to adjust. Jason isn’t like that. Jason feels everything so deeply, lets himself be open to it. Jason had the courage to do what she could never do. 

Jason had the courage to die.

She scrambles up onto the shore, teeth chattering despite the warmth of the morning sunshine. The river water is freezing, and her hair is plastered to her face, mascara running down her pale cheeks. She stumbles up onto the rocky banks and drops down into a crouch, fighting back a wave of nausea. _No._ She promised. She promised Jason. Cheryl has lied to everyone in her life at least once except him. She could never lie to him. She has to play her part. It’s not over yet. 

It’s never over.


	2. Chapter 2

Betty closes her eyes and counts to ten, then rolls over onto her stomach, pressing her face into her pillow and breathing in the smell of fabric softener. Mom just washed it two days ago. She groans and kicks her legs uselessly, curling her bare toes into the quilt. “Has he texted back yet?” 

Her voice is muffled, weak. It’s unseasonably cold for Labor Day. Cold enough for jeans. But she got a tan this summer, and she wanted to show off her legs, so she’s wearing the shorts Kevin says make her ass look the best. Betty really isn’t used to any of this. She’s not a short-shorts girl. She’s a ‘looks like she just got back from a church potluck’ girl. And that’s what Archie likes about her, she thinks. That she’s good. Modest. Unassuming.

But no one wants to date someone who might as well write VIRGIN across their forehead in sharpie. She’s fifteen now, since April, and fifteen is different than fourteen. Last year she was still a kid, with braces and acne and baggy sweaters. Now she has a year of high school under her belt, she got her braces off in June, and her acne has (mostly) cleared up. She’s different. She got her last growth spurt last year, and finally passed 5’5”. She has actual _boobs_ now. 

Now she just has to convince Archie that she’s what he wants, what he’s always wanted, they were just too dumb and little to realize it before. This is the time. They’re sophomores, and if they start dating now they’ll be serious by next spring, and they can spend all of next summer together, she doesn’t care what Mom says, and there’ll be Homecoming and all his football games and junior prom and senior prom and then-

Well, Betty can’t predict the future. But Mom and Dad met in high school. Lots of people around here did. Riverdale is full of worn down high school sweethearts, reduced from prom queens and football stars to squabbling about the mortgage and fighting with their kids. That’s why she’s not staying. As soon as she’s accepted into Yale, she’s off to Connecticut, with Archie in tow. Maybe they’ll move to the city after college, or LA- she loved LA so much, the sun and the palm trees and the surf. Riverdale feels washed out and dreary in comparison.

Betty felt like a woman in LA, not nice little Betty Cooper, whose parents run the Register and whose always skipping off to National Honors Society Meetings or debate or Science Olympiad or choir. Nobody knew her, or her family, or about Polly, or anything. She was just another wide-eyed blonde with a bubbly smile, walking a little too fast down the street, hungrily drinking everything in. She still can’t believe Mom and Dad let her go, but she suspects they wanted her out of the house so they could… deal with Polly.

“Not yet,” Kevin finally answers, having given up on scrolling through Twitter. He is slumped on Betty’s bean bag, her phone in one hand, his in the other, looking about as bemusedly bored as he always does when he’s over at her house. Betty is glad that she’s allowed to close the door to her room when Kevin is over, because Mom is reasonably sure they won’t try to have sex, on account of him being gay and all.

Kevin is also baby-faced and slender, with a lanky, slightly sheepish build, and slicked back blonde hair that Mom approves of. He also has perfect skin, and never needed braces, which Betty thinks is disgusting. It’s not fair. If Kevin was straight, girls would be all over him. They already kind of are, since half of their high school has proclaimed him their gay best friend since he came out over the summer before freshman year. 

“I don’t get why you’re freaking out,” he murmurs apathetically, while replying to a text. “It’s literally just Archie. You’ve been attached at the hip since kindergarten.”

“You know why,” she retorts, raising her head to glower at him blearily. “Okay? Archie is- _everyone_ likes him!”

“Everyone likes you,” Kevin rolls his eyes. “Literally everyone. Everyone in our year, anyways. I mean, I guess probably not Cheryl, but she’s a senior, so we only have one more year of the Ginger Menace-,”

“I am not talking about Cheryl right now,” Betty huffs, stomach giving an anxious twist. “I mean, Archie’s… he’s cool. Everyone’s cool with him. He got invited to so many parties last year!”

“Yeah, and then totally humiliated himself because apparently he can’t hold his alcohol,” Kevin shrugs. “Look, he’s popular, I guess, but it’s only because he’s on the football team and half the town has got family working for his dad. He’s not like, a _god_ , Betty. Calm down.”

“I’m not saying he is,” Betty mutters defensively, sitting up and kicking her legs out over the side of the bed. She just shaved them this morning, but she thinks she missed a few spots. You shouldn’t be able to tell, right? 

They’ll be at Pop’s, so it’s not like he’ll be looking at her legs in a diner booth. Although she wants him to. Maybe from the back? She’s not sure how to flirt with someone she’s known since diapers. They already hug and hold hands and all of that. What more can she do? Fall into his lap? 

The very thought of sitting in Archie’s lap makes her flush and chew on the inside of her cheek. He’s always been taller than her. Last year in gym they were playing capture the flag and he picked her up, squealing, and tried to dump her over the line.

She was shocked by how easily he did, and how much she liked the feeling of his arms straining against her torso. Was that a sign? Was he trying to flirt with her then, and she missed it? What if he was, but he’s not interested anymore? She’d die. She’d probably just kill herself if that was it, that he had liked her, but she’d been too stupid to notice, too worried about Honors Geometry and AP World History and Polly.

“What if he got a girlfriend over the summer?” she blurts out nervously, digging her nails into her palms.

Kevin looks up at her, nose wrinkled in disbelief. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” he scoffs.

“But what if he did?” she presses. “I was gone right after school ended, and I literally got back two days ago. I haven’t even seen him-,”

“Betty,” Kevin snaps. “Oh my god. You have to chill the fuck out. It’s Archie. He follows you around like a puppy, okay? There is no way he’s not into you. Literally all you have to do is ask.”

 _I don’t want to have to ask_ , Betty almost yells, _I want him to ask ME_. That’s the way it’s _supposed_ to go. Yes, she’s a feminist and everything, but guys are supposed to make the first move. Why does it have to be one more responsibility of hers? 

She already does everything. She basically served as Archie’s alarm clock last year, because no one was home in the morning to wake him up. She texts him about the homework, she picks where they sit at lunch, she makes sure he didn’t forget anything for practice-

Kevin says that’s the problem. She acts like his mom, not a potential girlfriend. If she wants him to like her, she has to cut the ‘mommy and me bullshit’ and be real with him. Say what she means. Mean what she says. All of it sounds pretty terrifying, if you ask Betty. Why can’t it be natural and easy? She always assumed it would just happen, that no one would have to say anything. 

Of course, she wasn’t really thinking about it until they got to middle school, but… she just thought it would happen while they were walking around through the neighborhood, or skipping rocks off the bridge, or hanging out in his garage. That one day, he’d just lean over and kiss her.

But it never happened, and she’s worried that if it doesn’t happen now it never will.

Her phone chimes, and she almost jumps out of her skin. 

“Coming out now,” Kevin reads in his typical impersonation of Archie’s voice, this ‘aw shucks!’ Hardy Boys twang that sounds nothing like Archie, and as Betty jumps out, examining her tank top for stains, Kevin languidly gets up and peers out the window, snickering. “Whoa. Someone grew.”

Betty rushes over to stare outside into the growing twilight as Archie ambles down his driveway across the street, wheeling the same bike he’s had since the eighth grade. He does look taller, and his arms look bigger too. He looks sort of… sort of older. Suddenly she feels like a baby. “Should I change my top?” she hisses at Kevin, tugging at her ponytail. “Is it too little girl-y?” It’s just a plain white sleeveless blouse, but suddenly she feels like a little doll. And Archie, who apparently grew a foot since June, probably doesn’t want to date an American Girl Doll.

Kevin does an ‘eh’ motion with his head, and she sighs before snatching her phone from him and cramming her feet into her canvas slip-ons. “Okay, I’ll text you as soon as we’re done.”

“Or maybe you won’t be done,” Kevin wriggles one eyebrow, and she bursts into nervous laughter before throwing a pillow at him as she races out of the room. Betty clatters down the stairs and almost bowls her mother over.

“Are you wearing lipstick?” Mom demands, hands her on her hips, before she glances down at Betty’s shorts in horror. “It’s 65 degrees out, Betty! Go up and change. You’ll freeze to death.”

“I’ll be too hot in jeans on my bike,” Betty sidles around her, ignoring her mother’s glare. “Mom, I will! I’m not even cold.”

“Is this a date, Elizabeth?” her mother snaps after her as Betty pushes open the screen door. She goes beet red. Can Archie hear what they’re saying? “Mom, no,” she spits, “oh my god- just stop!”, and then Betty is darting down from the front porch, shoving her phone and change purse in her back pockets, and wheeling her bike out onto the sidewalk.

And then there is Archie, who is half a foot taller than her now, as opposed to one or two inches, and who is smiling good-naturedly as he pulls her into a warm, sweaty hug. Betty giddily breathes in the smell of his aftershave, even if he put way too much on, as usual, and then bounces back on her heels. “I missed you so much,” she babbles.

“I know,” he smirks, and then amends at her mock gasp, “I mean, I missed you too, Bet. You got super tan.” She hopes he’s looking at her legs. She is kind of cold right now. God, she hopes she doesn’t get goosebumps.

“You got super freckled,” she retorts, and he bursts into laughter, and for a moment it’s easy and normal, before the anxiety rears up again, and she doesn’t know what to say.

Luckily they don’t have to talk while they’re biking to Pop’s, and Betty can stew in nervous silence until they’ve found an empty booth- the diner is busy, full of post-barbeque patrons- and ordered what they always get, cheeseburgers and onion rings and fries, with the chili sauce for Archie, and two milkshakes, chocolate for him and vanilla for her. Betty wants to shovel food in her mouth, despite not being hungry, just so she doesn’t have to talk, but she does have to talk.

“So… did you actually get to talk to Toni Morrison?” he finally asks, in between slurps. 

“Yes,” Betty beams, knowing that he’s happy for her, even if he’s never gotten through a Morrison novel in his life- Archie’s not stupid, he’s just… dyslexic and easily distracted. He’s fine when he has someone to keep him on task, like her. His dad doesn’t really seem to get it, that Archie isn’t just a slacker, which he is, but that he’s not willfully a slacker, it’s more… he slides into the role, because he gets so fed up and insecure.

“Um, she was super nice, and like- she actually gave me really good advice,” Betty confesses, gesturing with a straw. “I mean, not that she like, wouldn’t have given good advice, but I was just this random high school intern, so- anyways, she told me, “ _Don’t rush this time, Betty. These summers go by so fast when you’re fifteen. But you change so much_.” 

Archie looks suitably impressed, taking a contemplative bite of his burger. “This summer did go by really fast. I mean, it didn’t feel like when I was pouring concrete all day, every day, but-,” he shrugs.

Betty suddenly feels bad, bragging about her dumb internship when Archie was stuck here with probably only Jughead Jones for company, working for his dad. Not that there’s anything wrong with construction, but- she’s just scared Archie will settle, is all. Settle for something he doesn’t even like or want.

 _Like he’ll settle for you_ , a nasty voice that sounds sort of like Mom tells her.

“But, um,” Archie is nervous now, chewing slow and hesitant, and her heart leaps, because he’s not the sort of person to get too worked up about things so if he is nervous- if he is nervous- then- “I kinda started writing a lot, over the summer. Of lyrics.”

“Really?” Betty is genuinely surprised; Archie has been playing the guitar and occasionally the drums since elementary school, and while he has a good, if untrained, voice, she never knew he was that passionate about it. He’s never really mentioned it before, anyways, beyond the occasional gushing over this or that band or musician. They don’t really like the same type of music. Specifically, he makes her listen to the same Green Day albums over and over again.

Archie flushes handsomely, spots of red in his cheeks, if that’s possible. He definitely lost a lot of baby fat over the summer, but he still has a boyish face, like a half-carved statue, with a Roman nose and a jaw leaning more towards square with every passing year. His hair has always been the same rusty reddish brown, although he was a real carrot-top when they were little, and he’s got a liberal dosage of freckles on his face and arms especially. 

His hands look sort of like a man’s now, calloused and hard, and she resists the urge to brush fingers against his. “I just… I got really into it this summer, I guess. Everyone was on vacation or just- busy,” he rolled his eyes briefly, “so I… I had a lot of time by myself, and like- I really like writing lyrics. It’s… it’s different. Gets me in my head.”

Archie always has been a daydreamer. It’s part of why Betty loves him so much she could scream. “Maybe you could take lessons this year or something?” she encourages. “Um- with what’s her name- Ms. Grundy?” She started teaching at Riverdale last year, when they were freshmen.

He looks a little taken aback, and then gives a quick nod. “Yeah, maybe. Fuck, I wish we were in a big city, it’d be so much easier-,”

The door jingles as someone walks in, and Archie trails off. Betty turns around quickly in her seat, almost knocking what’s left of her milkshake over. The girl who’s sauntering up to the counter is short and curvy, in pricey looking jeans, heeled boots she must be roasting in, and a very… adult top, all silky and dark. Betty crosses her arms over her chest protectively, as if to ward the intruder off. This is definitely not someone from around here.

“Hi,” the girl says to Pop at the counter, and Betty gets a glimpse of her face- olive skin, big eyes, jet black hair and deep red lipstick, she must be at least seventeen or eighteen- “Um, I called in an order for Lodge?” She’s clearly a bit uncomfortable, her gaze darting around the diner like everyone’s staring at her, which, they aren’t, aside from Betty and Archie.

He tells her she has to wait, or something, and she nods and turns around, pulling out her phone. Then she locks eyes with them, and Betty’s heart sinks as she walks over. Great. Archie is- well, Archie is staring at her like she’s the only girl in the room, like Betty doesn’t even exist, and any hope of getting up the nerve to ask him out is rapidly dwindling. This is so stupid. He doesn’t like her. He doesn’t even think of her like that, probably.

“Hi,” says the girl, almost shyly, and Betty wants to slap her. It would be better if she acted like some stuck up bitch. At least she wouldn’t feel bad about disliking her. “So..,” she hesitates, and Archie opens his mouth but no sound comes out. “Do you guys go to Riverdale High?”

Oh. Betty had assumed she was already out of high school, but now- what was her name, Lodge? Oh, Jesus Christ. “Er,” she says, as Archie blurts out, “Yeah, we’re sophomores. Are you new?”

The girl smiles, prettily, and Betty hates her even more, because Archie’s hair and face match in shade. “Cool,” she says enthusiastically, with the cautious air of someone not used to having to show this much enthusiasm, “I’m a sophomore too, uh, Veronica Lodge?” Her voice drops a little on her name, like she’s afraid people might overhead.

“I’m your peer mentor,” Betty says immediately, a probably in a flatter tone than is polite. Right. Of course. She expected Veronica Lodge, who she knows is from the city, and apparently rich, or used to be rich, or something, to be some naive little airhead who would spend the entire first day of classes rolling her eyes at Betty and complaining about how the nearest mall is almost forty five minutes away.

Instead, she looks like a college student, is dressed like an off-duty runway model, and has the smooth, confident tone of a polished actress. And Archie is already head over heels for her. Fantastic. Just swell. Great. Betty is going to spend her first week of sophomore year trying to keep Archie from drooling on the new girl, instead of going on her first real date with her first real boyfriend. Which will never happen.

Veronica looks momentarily uncertain, and then Betty feels awful and tries to put on a courteous smile. “I- oh, cool, really?” Veronica says, picking at a stray thread on her black jeans. “That’s so funny, running into you. So you’re… Beth?’ 

“Betty,” Betty says, as Archie snorts. “Betty Cooper, and he’s-,”

“Archie Andrews,” he interjects.

Veronica looks like she’s not sure whether they’re joking or not, with names like those, before nodding. “Well-,”

“Lodge!” Pop calls out, order in hand, and she turns on her heel.

“Um, I have to go, so- so I’ll see you guys tomorrow!” Veronica calls over her shoulder, flashing a bright smile, and is gone as quickly as she came. Archie watches her go with great interest. 

“Wow,” he says after a moment. “She did NOT look like a sophomore.”

Betty, who looks very much like a sophomore, slumps down into her seat, even less hungry than before.


	3. Chapter 3

Archie is running late. This is no surprise; he’s never been that good on waking up on time, and Dad says he spends more time getting ready than Mom. Which is sort of true, but only because Mom’s a lawyer and always in a rush. Or, was. There’s nothing more awkward than having a mom who kind of, sort of left. 

It’s not like he never sees her. She visited for a week in August, and she’ll be back at the end of September. And they video chat every weekend. But it’s still weird, since she and Dad aren’t technically divorced yet. It’s ‘pending’. Mom seems ready. He doubts Dad will ever be. Archie doesn’t know if he’s ready either. He’s always been closer with Mom, but then she left for Chicago because she felt ‘unfulfilled’ and now it’s just been him and Dad, for almost two years.

Archie loves his father, but… he and Mom have just always gotten along better, that’s all. Dad is very… decisive. Archie is very much… not. He spends about five minutes going back and forth over what t-shirt to wear before deciding on the blue, and runs a hand through his ruffled, wavy hair as he walks into the kitchen, relieved to be wearing sneakers for once, instead of work boots.

Dad is there, to his dismay. He’d hoped he’d gone to work already. “I’m so freaking late,” he mutters, in lieu of making conversation, and rifles through the fridge, ignoring the look his father is burning into the back of his neck.

“Archie,” Dad finally says, when Archie turns around with a poptart in his mouth. He hastily bites off a chunk and swallows as his father continues. “You’ll be by the site after school, right?”

Archie glances down in annoyance at his shoes. One of his laces is undone. “Dad, come on. I was there all summer. It’s the first week of school.”

“But you can start working in this office this fall,” Dad argues, pouring himself some more coffee, straight black. “That way you won’t be on the crew again next summer. We talked about this, Arch.”

Sure. Dad talked, while Archie pretended to listen. It’s not that he hates construction, or Dad. He just thinks it’s bullshit that he’s expected to basically work under Dad now that he’s fifteen and ‘almost a man’. What the hell does ‘almost a man’ even mean? It’s one or the other. You’re either a kid or an adult. And he’s definitely not a kid anymore. Dad acts as though he’s a man now, but he’s still ordering him around like a little boy.

Not for the first time, he thinks he should have gone with Mom to Chicago. She did ask. It’s not like Dad forced him to stay here with him. But he didn’t want to move and start an entirely new school in a big city. He loves Riverdale. It’s always been home, reassuring and secure. Except now it’s becoming more suffocating than anything else. The only bright spot this summer was- 

“Dad, I have football tryouts,” he says shortly, shouldering his backpack. “Okay? I’m not- what, I’m not allowed to play this year?”

He knows Dad isn’t going to come out and tell him ‘no’. He knows better than that. Dad hates to fight. With Archie, with Mom, with anyone. He didn’t even fight with Mom about her leaving. They just don’t speak to each other anymore. Archie wishes he’d have fought her. At least then she might still be here, instead of halfway across the country. As if she couldn’t have been a lawyer down in the city. 

Vegas is barking in the living room at a passing car, and Archie takes advantage of the distraction, and the pained look on his father’s face, to run out, almost tripping over his laces. It’s not as though anyone will care whether he’s late to first period on the very first day back, but he’s actually excited to be back at school for once. He’s not a freshman anymore, he knows his spot on the JV team is all but guaranteed, and-

And he’ll see Ms. Grundy again. He hasn’t seen her in nearly two months, and he knows- well he knows what she said, and he said, that it was a mistake and it never should have happened, but- but if it was really a mistake, he wouldn’t miss her the way he does. He misses her laugh, and her smile, and the way her eyes crinkle when she does, and the smell of her peachy shampoo in her hair, and kissing her. 

She said they couldn’t see each other anymore, that it was inappropriate, but- no one’s ever made him feel the way she did. The way she does. Like he was special. Like he was someone who mattered. Sure, people seem to like him, but- but no one’s ever looked at him like that, like he was the only person in the entire world. Geraldine- Ms. Grundy- she did. She didn’t treat him like an idiot, or a dumb jock, or a clueless little kid. She said he was an old soul, like her. That he really understood her.

He’s fifteen now, sure, and she’s twenty six, but in a couple years he’ll be eighteen, and no one will be able to say anything about it. Lots of couples are pretty far apart. And he doesn’t feel like he’s fifteen, when he’s with her. This is his first real relationship, ever. Yeah, his first kiss was with Betty… in kindergarten. That doesn’t exactly count, and besides Betty is- well, Betty is like a sister to him, one of his best friends. It’s not the same thing. 

He is late, but the halls are still packed with students, despite the teachers occasionally poking their heads out and barking at everyone to get to class. Archie, of course, has no idea where his new locker is, and can’t remember what room number his first class is even in, so he crouches down by the water fountain to tie his shoes. 

“Yo, Andrews, what the fuck?” It’s Reggie, looking torn between shock and disdain. Archie has known Reggie since elementary school, and he still can’t figure out if they’re friends. Reggie thinks he’s hot shit and talks a lot of trash, but he’s also a good teammate, when he can get his head out of his ass. Which isn’t that often.

“Hey Reg,” Archie says uncertainly, standing up. Reggie still has a couple of inches on him, but he no longer towers over Archie. Reggie seems to have taken notice as this as well, from the look he gives Archie. 

“What, you camp out in the gym all summer?” Reggie scoffs. “Your balls finally drop, Arch? Get laid? Jesus Christ, dude, what happened to you? You’re fucking shredded!”

Archie flushes a bit. Reggie is a junior, and effortlessly cool- well, not effortlessly, since he can’t go a day without telling everyone how fucking cool he is- but he makes it seem effortless, most of the time. He’s tall and good-looking, and definitely more muscled than Archie, and when he was a freshman trying out for JV he beat up this sophomore who said something along the lines of ‘I didn’t know Chinks could play football’.

He also (supposedly) sells weed and maybe some other stuff, but Archie’s not dumb enough to ask. Reggie would probably take it as a compliment. “Uh, I worked construction all summer,” he finally says, somewhat lamely, and then spots Moose shoving his way through a crowd of confused freshmen. He prefers Moose to Reggie; Moose is a sophomore, like him, and kind of an idiot, but at least he’s a laid-back idiot. 

Once Reggie and Moose are bro-ing out, he starts to head downstairs to the music wing, but suddenly he and everyone else are being herded towards the auditorium. Archie is completely confused; did they change the dress code again?, but then he realizes, and remembers. Oh. Jason. Fuck. It’s not like he ever even really knew the guy. But he’s always seemed pretty nice, and quiet, compared to a lot of other upperclassmen. 

And then he thinks about the Fourth of July, and feels sick, until he sees Betty, Kevin, and the new girl, Veronica, and makes his way into their row near the front, muttering apologizes as he steps on toes and trips over backpacks. “Hey,” he greets them casually, unable to stop himself from staring at Veronica, who is wearing a dress and high heels and diamond earrings, and who smiles in that cool girl way at him as he sits down on the other side of Kevin.

Betty looks a bit flustered, but is then saying, under her breath, “Is she giving a speech?” and a collective groan seems to go up, although it’s much more restrained than it usually would be, since, well- Jason is dead, and as much as everyone hates Cheryl, she is now… a surviving twin. Which is actually kind of disturbing, if you ask Archie. What would it be like, to spend seventeen years as a twin, and then… become an only child, over the course of what? Minutes?

Cheryl walks neatly up to the podium, looking as well-dressed but significantly more modest than usual; her skirt actually comes down to her knees for once, and she’s wearing flats. Still, her lipstick is as bright red as ever. She’d look like a clown princess if she wasn’t so hot. Even Archie can admit it. It’s just that she’s usually more freaky than she is attractive, with those cold, sharp eyes and the pale skin and the way she talks- she honestly sounds like the villain from a James Bond movie, half the time. Maybe it’s a rich people thing.

There’s a moment of silence, before Cheryl begins to speak, glancing down at the piece of paper in front of her. “Thank you all for your support over the past two months. Obviously, it’s been a very difficult summer for all of us here, and especially Jason’s friends and family. I know not all of you knew Jason the way I-,” she hesitated, “the way we do, but he was truly… a kind, selfless person, who always went out of his way to help others, and who… who truly embodied the spirit of our town, and of Riverdale High.”

A few teachers are nodding approvingly, the crowd is deathly silent, and when Archie glances over at Betty, she doesn’t exactly look convinced of Saint Jason’s credentials. And where the hell is Jughead? But, then again, he doesn’t think Jughead has ever willingly attended an assembly in his life, so he’s probably hiding out in an empty classroom or the locker room, if he even showed up for school today.

“Jason will never be forgotten,” Cheryl was still talking, her voice raising a little and taken on an almost theatrical tone, “and in my opinion, the best way to honor his memory would be to continue… to continue our lives as normal, and to hold the Back-to-School semi formal in his honor!” She smiles waveringly as the auditorium descends into applause and yells of agreement.

Everyone (well, all the girls) have been worried that the semi formal was going to be canceled for weeks. Archie really couldn’t care less about a stupid dance he doesn’t plan on going to anyways, but- 

“Yikes,” Kevin says under his breath, as everyone gets up, rummaging for bags and books. “What’s up with her, do you think? Is she gonna use this for an audition tape- Cheryl’s Creek?” he mocks.

“Dude,” Archie groans, as Betty says mildly, “Everyone grieves differently, Kevin. Maybe this is her way of coping.”

“So who was Jason, exactly?” Veronica asks in confusion as they file out of the row.

“Cheryl’s equally creepy twin brother,” Kevin explains. “They were totally fucking.”

“Kevin, oh my GOD,” Betty snaps, smacking him with her binder.

Veronica is laughing without making any noise, which Archie finds surprisingly cute; she really is tiny, still shorter than Betty even with three inch heels. 

“Look,” Kevin continues, “I’m just trying to be honest with Veronica, since she IS new. Like, what the fuck? I mean, Jason was way more sane than Cheryl, but he wasn’t in the running for Homecoming King or anything. Dude was kind of a loner.”

“He was just quiet,” Archie says. “I mean, he kept to himself. I think- I think he was used to getting a lot of shit from people, because of his family, and the money, and everything, so maybe he just liked being alone.”

Veronica looks a bit struck by that, and Archie wonders if the Lodges are Blossom-level old money. 

“Well, he was a real piece of shit to Betty’s sister,” Kevin mutters, and only shuts up at the look Betty gives him.

“They dated on and off,” she says quickly, at Veronica’s curious stare. “It- I mean, whatever. I don’t even know. I guess Polly thought it was serious. My parents just- they never liked him. Polly is- she’s just really… sensitive.”

“Does she go here?” Veronica is asking Betty, when Archie finally spots who he’s been looking for and darts off into the crowd, figuring he’ll apologize for ditching them later. Ms. Grundy in clicking down the hall towards the band room when he catches up to her, breathless. She turns, her eyes widen behind her glasses, and she purses her lips together. Archie kind of remembers what they taste like. Cherry soda.

“You need to get to class, Archie,” she tells him, and the fact that she’s gone back to speaking like an adult, like he’s just some random kid, stings. Badly.

“But Ms. Grundy, I- I just wanted to ask you about maybe taking lessons this year? Like… like an independent study?” he asks, resisting the urge to rub his hands on his jeans in anxiety.

She sighs. “Archie- I really don’t think you have the time, what with football-,”

“Maybe I won’t even try out this year,” he begins wildly, but she’s shaking her head. 

“I- you should speak to your guidance counselor about this, Archie. I have a class to teach. And you’re going to wind up with a referral on your first day if you’re late.”

He stares after her in wounded dismay, staring at her dirty blonde hair spilling down her back, held in place with a neat black clip, and the cut of her skirt, and her sensible shoes and her tanned legs. It’s- that’s not how he thought it would go. Is she serious? Does she really not like him anymore? Not want to spend time with him? What did he do wrong? 

“Mr. Andrews, do you need a map?” It’s Principal Weatherbee, at the end of the hall, and Archie exhales in frustration as he slowly turns around.

“No, sir.”


	4. Chapter 4

Veronica is gripping her lunch tray a little too tightly. It’s a faded blue; everything here is blue, blue and gold are the school colors. The Riverdale Bulldogs. Veronica has always been more of a cat person. She steps outside and instantly wants to march back into the cafeteria. 

Students are allowed to eat on the school grounds until the end of October, which is nice, or would be nice, if they weren’t eating crap shoveled out on a tray and there was somewhere to get a decent frappuccino. Not a single. Starbucks. In. Town. There’s a Dunkin 20 minutes away, though.

Veronica stares down at her greasy slice of pizza and carton of lukewarm milk, and takes a deep breath. She can do this. She might be overdressed, overheated, and already exhausted by this place, but she can make it through fifth period lunch. She scans the rusting metal picnic tables for familiar faces; at Spence, despite the uniforms, it was easy to tell who was with who.

Here’s it’s one big jumbled patchwork, and although there a few distinct groups, like the football and baseball teams and a cluster of alternatives huddled under a tree, it’s mostly a nonsensical mish-mash of hoodies and peasant blouses and ripped jeans and hightops and mini-skirts. Her gaze lands on Cheryl Blossom, who was apparently already infamous, even before the dead brother.

She doesn’t look very infamous at lunch time. She’s eating a yogurt and scrolling through her phone with a small smirk, while a cluster of other girls shriek with laughter around her. So she’s popular, then. Veronica knows what popularity sounds like. Popularity is people laughing with you, not at you. Veronica learned the difference very quick. She starts to gravitate towards Cheryl’s group, knowing they won’t turn her down, but then she hears a familiar voice.

Nearby, Betty and Archie and Kevin are listening to something on a laptop, faces drawn in concentration. They look weird. Archie is nervously chewing on a pizza crust, Betty is biting her lower lip as if taking an exam, and Kevin is flipping a Snapple cap over and over between his fingers. 

She wouldn’t have wasted time trying to get in with them before; it would have been pointless. Girls like Betty don’t throw parties. They don’t even go to parties. Kevin is well-dressed but way too bitter. And Archie… she’d be lying if she said he wasn’t cute, but he also seems a bit… spacey. 

But this is now, not before, and she’s not Veronica Lodge, That Heinous Bitch, anymore. She’s Veronica Lodge, Turning Over A New Leaf. Which includes deigning to eat with her lessers, since they probably won’t bring up her dad, how evil her family is, or whether or not her parents are getting a divorce. 

“Hi,” she says, hating how quiet she sounds, and embarrassed that she even has to ask if she can sit with them.

Betty, no matter how reluctantly, moves over to make room for her, and Veronica sits down beside her and across from Kevin. She glances over at Archie and his laptop while she opens her milk. A somewhat grainy video is playing. “Is that you singing?” It’s something vaguely throaty and punky, although he’s playing an acoustic. 

He flushes. “Yeah. I- I got really into music over the summer.”

Veronica listens in, somewhat skeptically. It’s not… well, it’s not cringey or terrible. It’s on the same level as any other white guy with an acoustic guitar posting videos online. “Did you write the lyrics?”

He nods, cramming the rest of the crust in his mouth. Veronica takes a small sip of milk and grimaces. “That’s really cool. You sound good.”

“That’s what we keep telling him,” Betty insists. She is picking at her ham and cheese sandwich. Veronica wonders if her mom still packs her lunch. Betty seems like she would be from that type of family. She mentioned her mother enough, during her nervous, rambling tour, that Veronica is pretty sure she asks Mrs. Cooper for permission to wake up every morning and brush her teeth.

But she’s nice, and although Veronica suspects Betty doesn’t like her that much, the blonde girl hasn’t given her any side-eye or made any passive aggressive remarks, even though there are plenty to be made. Disgraced socialite? Come on, she’s as easy a target as it gets. But Riverdale has been, if not exactly welcoming, far from hostile. A few odd looks here and there, but no whispers or snickers behind her back.

It’s almost refreshing, really, compared to her old scene. Where they tore you to shreds as soon as they felt better than you. She still doesn’t get it. They were her friends. At least, she thought they were friends. They hung out together, partied together, texted constantly. Her phone has never been this quiet. No texts, no snaps, nothing. Granted, she kind of had to lock her social media down what with the trial and everything, but…

Veronica has never felt this alone in her entire life. And maybe she kind of likes it? She’s not sure. She bites into her pizza as Archie closes his laptop, as if worried it might attract attention, and shoves it back into his backpack. Kevin is finishing off the last of his Snapple. “So,” he says, when he’s done, “how’d it go? Survive first period Chem? Your schedule fucking sucks, by the way.”

She shrugs. “It was fine. Way lighter workload than my old school.” She may or may not be surrounded by morons. She’s in Honors Chem and she’s pretty sure she’s leagues ahead most of the class, and it’s only the first day. The teacher seems to like her, too, probably because she was all dressed up. She knows she should have worn jeans and a tee shirt or something but that’s just not her, she’s not a tee shirt kind of girl, and she always had to wear a uniform at Spence, so…

“Yeah,” Kevin says, “I think it’s something in the water. That and all the inbreeding.”

Archie laughs so hard he chokes a little, and Betty reaches over to affectionately pound him on the back. Veronica still isn’t sure if they’re dating or what. It seems pretty weird that a football jock would spend all his time with a sarcastic gay kid and a former girl scout. Then again, Archie seems cheerfully oblivious in a manner that’s both endearing and exasperating. Or maybe he just really doesn’t give a fuck.

“It’s because of… the whole Jason thing,” Betty says quietly. She’s left the crusts of her sandwich, like a little kid. “That’s all anyone can talk about.”

“Well, at least he had the honor of being Cherry Bomb’s brother-lover,” Kevin snorts. “Bet you Cheryl milks this all year long. ‘Oh, I can’t possibly do my Pre-Calc homework, Mr. Goldwater! I’m in mourning!’” His imitation of Cheryl gives her a southern, Gone With the Wind falsetto, and even Veronica cracks a wry smile.

“Speak of the devil,” Archie says glibly, and Veronica looks over to see a familiar redhead walking over to their table. He grabs his backpack. “I gotta go to Guidance. See you guys later.”

He’s running off like he’s got the hounds of hell at his heels by the time Cheryl is within earshot. Veronica likes watching him run; it’s very graceful, compared to how messy he seems to be the rest of the time. But her attention is snapped back by the way Kevin rolls his eyes and purposefully looks away, and Betty hunches her shoulders beside her, as if rain is about to fall.

Cheryl seems more like lightning; flashy and vaguely threatening. Veronica doesn’t trust her blinding smile for an instant, no matter how white her teeth are. “I just wanted to come say hello,” she says sweetly, hands clasped in front of her like a society dame, and then slides into the seat beside Kevin, who looks ready to kill himself.

“Cheryl Blossom, cheer captain, theater president, and future valedictorian,” she extends a lily white hand for Veronica to shake, as if they’re adults at a luncheon.

Veronica shakes it firmly anyways, like her dad taught her to, and maintains eye contact. Cheryl seems liable to tear chunks out of her face the second she looks away. 

“Wow,” says Kevin lightly, “I didn’t know they did grades this early-,”

“Well, I was always one spot behind Jason,” Cheryl tilts her head almost mockingly, and out of the corner of her eye Veronica sees Betty communicate a look that is equal parts frightened doe and ‘what the fuck’. “Anyways!” Cheryl continues. “I just wanted to let you know that tryouts for the River Vixens- our cheer team- are today, and I heard you did cheer at your old school so,” she shrugs. “Just thought I’d see if you’d want to join our team. We’re always looking for new talent.”

Regardless of malicious intentions, this is something Veronica can get behind. She needs an extracurricular, and she did do cheer at Spence- flyer since the sixth grade. One of the only times being short puts you ahead of the pack. And she can’t just sit home and stress eat while watching Netflix every day after school. She worked for these legs and this ass, after all.

“I’ll definitely try out,” she says, and manages a halfway-genuine smile, then glances at Betty. “Are you going to?”

Betty sort of seems like the cheerleader type- although maybe a bit more 50s ‘rah rah go team!’ than competitive pyramid building. The blonde girl hesitates. “Um-,”

“I mean, Betty, you’re welcome to try out… again,” Cheryl pauses to let that sink in, “just make sure you’re ready for the commitment. Coach wants girls who take it… well, you know, seriously, and you do so much-,”

Veronica already hates her. “I don’t want to try out by myself,” she lies, turning pleading eyes on Betty. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Cheryl makes an expression very close to a sneer, and then gets up. “See you at tryouts- or maybe not!”

Veronica waits until she’s at least a few paces away, and then says, in a low tone, “Is she always such a bitch, or is this like a grief thing?”

“She’s been a cunt to Betty ever since Jason hooked up with Polly,” Kevin rolls his eyes, “so forever, basically.”

“Kev,” Betty snaps, but her pale cheeks are a-flame. “I- whatever, it’s not a big deal. She’s just immature and lashing out. And- and I tried out for the team last year, but I- she kept making fun of me the entire time and I got really nervous so I didn’t make it and then Cheryl told everyone it was because no one would be able to even lift me.”

Veronica’s not sure if she even wants to be friends with Betty, but she knows she fucking hates Cheryl Blossom, so they have that in common. “What the fuck? What does she think- does she think she’s in Mean Girls? In what world is that funny? Oh my god.”

Veronica has said similar things, about girls even skinnier than Betty. But that was when she was twelve, thirteen, fourteen year old Veronica, who was a stupid little bitch who thought she could make herself feel better by shitting on everyone else. What the hell is Cheryl’s excuse? She’s a senior! 

“It’s fine,” Betty sighs. “I’m not going to let her get to me. She loves getting a reaction.”

“Okay,” says Veronica, “so you’re trying out with me, right?”

Kevin whistles under his breath. “Oh boy.”

The gym is, to say the least, pretty sad, and Veronica doesn’t think the locker rooms have been updated since the forties. But she marches out confidently with Betty in tow anyways, and makes a beeline for the line to try out, which is mostly full of nervous freshmen. She spots the coach, a young-ish woman who’s reaming out two older girls. Great. 

Sooner or later, it’s their turn, since they’re allowed to try out in pairs, and while Veronica is pretty confident they aced it- Betty said she did ballet as a kid and she’s more graceful than she looks at first glance- she doesn’t like the look on Cheryl’s face, which is approaching unbearably smug. 

“Good job, girls,” Coach Hardy says with a small smile that reveals nothing. “Nice show of confidence. List’ll be up online by tonight. Alright, next?”

They’re changing in the locker room when Cheryl enters, trailed after by two henchmen? Henchwomen? “Wow, great job, guys,” she says, as Veronica awkwardly zips up the back of her dress and Betty pauses, mid-tying her shoes. “Veronica, you’re definitely going to make it. Betty- well, we all know how busy you are, and what with all the stuff with your sister… I let Coach know that you were basically peer-pressured into it, so-,”

“Oh, come on,” Veronica finally snaps, although she promised herself- and Mom- that she was going to play it cool, not make an enemies, try to be sweet to everyone- well, fuck that. She’s not going to just stand here while Cheryl drags Betty in front of at least fifteen onlookers and no one says a fucking word because her brother’s dead. “Betty was just as good as me.”

One of Cheryl’s betas rolls her eyes. “Yeah, with fatter legs-,”

“Hey Ginger, right? We have study hall together,” Veronica interrupts her. “Fuck you.”

Ginger blanches. 

“One day into the year and you already have a new guard dog, Betty,” Cheryl says. “Oh my god, Polly 2.0.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper, a smile pulling at her red, red lips. “Hopefully this one doesn’t end up in a group home.”

“Go to hell.”

Veronica raises an eyebrow herself, and looks back at Betty, who’s stood up, shoes still untied, and is shaky and white-lipped but if looks could kill- if looks could kill Cheryl would be just as dead as her twin brother, apparently. 

“Excuse moi?” Cheryl asks, delightedly, as if this is what she wanted to hear all along.

“I said go to hell,” Betty repeats herself, a bit louder, “and don’t talk about my sister, Cheryl, you evil fucking BITCH.” Her voice raises to a yell at the end of the sentence, and Veronica thinks that if she wasn’t in the way, the taller girl might launch herself at Cheryl.

“Cooper’s gone cuckoo,” Ginger mutters, but no one laughs.

Coach Hardy is standing in the doorway, scowling. “Girls! Who just yelled that-,”

“Me,” says Veronica carelessly, reaching back and grabbing Betty’s hand. “I’m sorry, Coach, but I don’t think I can do cheer this year. Neither can Betty. We have, um- debate, school newspaper- way too much going on. I’m so sorry for wasting your time.” She snatches up her Kate Spade backpack, turns so Hardy can’t see her flipping Cheryl the bird, and stalks out.

Betty is near tears as they burst out of the gym. “I can’t believe I- oh my god,” she babbles, “I’m so stupid- everyone heard me say that! Cheryl’s going to- it’s gonna be all over Twitter! Oh my god, if my mom finds out- I could get suspended! I cursed out Cheryl Blossom! Her brother’s dead!”

“Yeah,” says Veronica, “and I don’t know about you, but honestly? If one of them had to go, it should have been her.”

It’s an awful thing to say, but Betty stops panicking, they stare at each other for a moment in the warm afternoon sunshine, and then break into awkward, slightly hysterical giggles.


	5. Chapter 5

Betty thinks one of the advantages to her parents running the town newspaper, as annoying as it is to hear about everyone’s dirty laundry over dinner, and as often as she gets shit at school for whatever scathing column her mom wrote, is that they keep late hours. They’ve been eating dinner at eight or nine o’clock at night for as long as she can remember.

Still, there’s always the chance of one of them coming back to the house to get something, since the Register’s office is barely a five minute drive, so she’s got to be careful. If Mom catches Veronica Lodge in their house there’ll be hellfire and damnation all around. She’s not sure what Veronica’s parents ever did to Mom and Dad but safe to say, a Lodge is on the ‘no’ list in terms of Parent-Approved-Friends.

But Mom has been suspicious of Archie since puberty and he’s the human equivalent of a golden retriever, so Betty takes Mom’s suspicions with a grain of salt. She’s just paranoid about Betty ‘falling in with the wrong crowd’ ever since the whole Polly thing. Not that Mom was ever laidback to begin with, but she definitely turned it up to 10 after last year.

Betty doesn’t know any other fifteen year old who has a strict 9:30 curfew and whose mom still tries to read their text messages and snoop on their computer. Luckily, she’s usually one step ahead of Mom when it comes to passwords. Polly always liked the joke ‘strict parents raise the best liars’. And technically she’s not even lying right now. She’s just not going to tell Mom or Dad that she had Veronica Lodge come over while they were at work.

Besides, in the 10 years that Betty has attended school with Cheryl Blossom, Veronica is one of the few to stand up to her, so that has to count for something, right? She unlocks the front door and leads the way into the house, which is as neat as ever, slipping off her shoes. Veronica enters somewhat uncomfortably after her, glancing around.

“Are you sure this is okay?”

Betty waves a hand as she puts her backpack down on the bench by the stairs. “No one’s home. Just take your shoes off- my mom’s like, obsessed with the floors.”

She walks into the kitchen, stomach growling, as Veronica takes off her heels. It’s only the second day of the school year, and she’s already exhausted, despite having no serious homework yet. After the cheerleading tryouts fiasco, she went home and cried, and debated faking being sick to get out of going in today, but then Mom would insist on staying home with her, and that would have stressed her out even more.

So she sucked it up and went it, and to her surprise, no one really said anything about her flipping out on Cheryl. Everyone who was in that locker room knows, obviously, but Betty figures maybe Cheryl was actually embarrassed at being raged at by two sophomores, and swore everyone else to silence. Or maybe she’s waiting to hold it over Betty’s head at a later date.

Either way, she’s kept her distance, which is just fine with Betty. She has enough to worry about without Cheryl compounding things. Like the dance on Friday night, which she’s still not sure she’s even going to. She rummages through the fridge. “We don’t really have any junk food… do you want an ice pop?”

“Sure,” Veronica says, acting as if she’s never heard that question in her life, and maybe she hasn’t. The Lodges don’t come across as ice pop people, unless it’s being served to them on a silver platter with caviar or something. Betty hands her one and pops open one herself, sucking on it anxiously as she leans against the kitchen counter.

“I still think you should ask him,” Veronica points out bluntly, kicking her short legs from one of the kitchen stools. “What do you have to lose?”

Veronica (and Kevin, unfortunately) are both of the mindset that Betty needs to bite the bullet and ask Archie to the dance. Betty thinks this is bullshit, and they’re ganging up on her. Why can’t someone bug Archie to ask her? Besides, he’s probably not even going. He’s an awful dancer. Even Jughead Jones is a better dance than him, and Jughead has the frame of a limp noodle.

“It’s just- I’ll be so embarrassed if he says no, and it’ll be so awkward,” Betty whines around the ice pop, slurping self-consciously. She doesn’t mean to be this personal and emotional with Veronica, who she’s known for all of two days, but then again, Veronica has this magnetic sort of way of drawing things out of you with a warm smile and a tilt of her head. She should be a psychiatrist. Or a lawyer.

“Only if you make it awkward,” Veronica insists, eating her ice pop far more delicately than Betty, careful not to drip any ice on her manicured nails. “Besides, he seems kind of oblivious, no offense- he might not even get that you’re trying to ask him out unless you spell it out for him.”

“That’s the problem,” Betty sighs. “He never- I don’t know, maybe I’m just not his type.” What even is Archie’s type? She knows he’s had crushes before, but they were all shallow, week or two long things, and they never made her feel threatened. Maybe he doesn’t know what his type is himself.

Veronica says as much. “You’ve just got to show him that his type,” she points at Betty with the stained popsicle stick, “is blonde hair and pastels.”

Betty tugs at her floral peasant blouse in dismay. “I- guys never like me, not like that.”

“It’s because they’re intimidated by you,” Veronica says smartly, and shakes her head when Betty laughs in disbelief. “No, I’m serious. My mom says it all the time- smart women terrify weak men.”

“Your mom sounds cool.” Betty’s mom says stuff like ‘good girls don’t chase boys, Elizabeth’. Once Dad joked that Mom sure hadn’t followed that advice in high school and she almost threw something at him. She throws her popsicle stick in the trash. “Hey,” she says, while she’s not looking at Veronica, “um, thanks for sticking up for me, yesterday. I don’t think I ever… like, said thanks, so…”

When she turns back around Veronica is smiling almost sadly. “Well,” she says, in a tight, tart voice, “I’ve got some stuff to make up for, you know? I- I wasn’t… the greatest person, at my old school. And I didn’t even- I mean, clearly Cheryl’s family is kind of fucked up. But I-,” she shrugs, “I didn’t have an excuse. I was just a bitch… to be a bitch. It was all really exciting and funny. I was so immature. I guess… none of it really mattered to me, so none of it was real, so I could say anything, and it wouldn’t matter.” Her voice flattens. “But it did.”

Betty imagines a cruel Veronica and is very glad she’s gotten the updated, empathetic version. “We… we all do stupid things,” she smiles a little, “but you know, it’s never too late to change, right? I mean, who knows. Maybe Cheryl will go off to college and become Miss Caring.”

Veronica arches a dark, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

Betty huffs. “Okay, maybe not. ...I kind of get why she singles me out, though. Jason and Polly… it was a giant mess. They were always on and off, always fighting… Polly would come home crying hysterically, and Cheryl probably had to deal with Jason doing the same thing. I don’t even know how they got together. I think… well, Polly was a Vixen and I think she thought she had to have a boyfriend, and Jason was really mysterious and brooding.”

Her memories of her sister and Jason together are scattered and vague, as if it’s been years, not months. He was always perfectly polite to Betty, and she never saw him and Polly argue, even if they seemed stiff and silently furious with each other at times. They put on a good face in public, at least, like an old married couple, and not teenagers who could have broken up any time they wanted.

She wonders how much of it was normal teenage angst and hurt feelings, and how much of it was… well, Jason being a Blossom. He always seemed so sharp and hard, like an ornate vase, despite his good looks, and Polly… well, Polly has always been so raw and vulnerable and yearning for approval, affection, just like Betty. It must have been like trying to jam shards of glass into an open wound.

“Do you know when she’s coming back? Polly, I mean?” Veronica asks sympathetically after a moment.

Betty shrugs. “She turns eighteen in January, so it’s not like they can keep her there forever. But- I don’t know, maybe it’s for the best. For her to be away from Mom and Dad, I mean. They- they never wanted her to be with Jason, and it would get… really nasty sometimes.”

She’s not about to tell Veronica that the last time she saw Mom and Polly speaking to each other, Mom called Polly a stupid little skank and said she was no daughter of hers. Betty has not forgiven her mother for that, and she doesn’t think Polly has, either. Polly always had the fiercer temper, the tendency to hold grudges and brood, just like Mom. Betty has always been more easygoing and amenable, like Dad.

She takes Veronica up to her room, as embarrassed as she is by the pale pink walls and the frilly bedspread and the dolls still on the top of her bookshelf, but Veronica cooes over everything and complains about how bare and empty her own bedroom is. 

“Plus,” she sighs dramatically, collapsing dramatically onto Betty’s bean bag, “No more walk-in closets.”

Betty is still giggling when she hears the sound of a car pulling into the driveway and panics. “Crap,” she gasps, glancing out the window, “it’s my mom-,”

But Veronica seems to have caught onto her genuine alarm and practically flies out of the room and down the stairs, snatching up her shoes and bag and bolting for the back door as Betty watches her mother walk briskly up the walk to the door. Veronica mouths ‘bye’ as she darts out into the backyard, and Betty suppresses a smile as her mother comes in.

She hasn’t really had a close girl friend in a while. Well, Valerie Brown and Ethel Muggs are nice, but Valerie is always busy with her band, and Ethel is so shy that talking to her sometimes is like pulling teeth. She misses having girl-talk. She used to tell Mom everything, but that doesn’t really seem like a great idea anymore, given the fact that Mom’s been in nuclear meltdown mode for months now.

“I forgot some papers,” Mom explains as she bustles inside, putting down her bag, and casting a critical look at Betty’s discarded packback. “Betty, take that upstairs. How many times do I have to tell you not to leave your things lying around?”

Stung, Betty obliges her, and closes her a door a little too roughly for good measure. She scrolls through instagram for a few minutes before, buoyed by her annoyance at Mom for ruining her hanging out with Veronica and for being such a bitch all the time- would it kill her to ask ‘How was your day, honey?’ just once?-, she calls Archie, since he almost never sees texts until hours later.

He picks up on the third ring, sounding breathless. “Yeah?”

“Were you running?” Betty snickers, rolling onto her side on her bed, staring at her bulletin board full of college pamphlets and awards. 

“No, I was- recording something,” he babbles. “What’s up? Is your mom on a rampage again?”

“Not really,” Betty rolls her eyes. “I dunno, I was just- um, do you think you’re going to the dance on Friday?”

He’s silent for a long moment, and her stomach churns. “I… I’ve got a lot of shit going on right now, Bet, I just don’t think… I mean, I’d probably just depress everyone,” he snorts.

She flails silently for some method of persuasion, before settling bitterly on, “Well, Veronica’s going, and so is Kevin, and it’ll be weird if it’s just the three of us. We don’t even have to stay the whole time-,”

“Veronica’s going?” his tone instantly brightens. “So are you guys like friends now?”

Betty scowls, even though she knows it’s not Veronica’s fault that Archie can be such an idiot. “Um, yeah, kind of. We hung out a bit today, until my mom came home-,”

Her bedroom door slams open and her mother stalks in, making Betty yelp and nearly fall off the bed, and hang up unceremoniously on Archie, who is squawking in confusion on the other end.

“Elizabeth Grace Cooper,” Mom snaps, “you are not allowed to be having conversations on the phone with your door closed- or having strangers over while your father and I are at work! And a Lodge,” her face reddens, “really, Betty, I thought you had more sense than that-,”

“It was just Archie, Mom,” Betty retorts, more ready for a fight than usual, because she feels like a goddamn prisoner in her own house, “and Veronica is my classmate, not a stranger, and she’s really nice, so-,”

“No,” Mom cuts her off, “no, you think Archie is ‘just a friend’ and that Lodge girl is ‘really nice’, because you are a CHILD, Elizabeth. You don’t understand what people are like when they think no one is watching-,”

“Oh I know,” Betty stands up; she’s almost as tall as Mom now, and as much as Mom’s anger crackles around her, she’s more angry than intimidated, because this is such bullshit, Betty has never given Mom and Dad any trouble, not like Polly- “I don’t understand because everyone but you is evil and out to get us, Mom, is that right? I’m so sick of this! I always do what you and Dad want, always-,” her voice hitches for a moment, “and all you do is treat me like shit!”

“Elizabeth,” Mom sucks in a breath in shock, but Betty pushes on, because if she can scream at Cheryl Blossom she can stand up to her mother-

“No! I’m going to the dance on Friday night, and I’m going with my friends, and I don’t care if you ground me- it’s not like it worked on Polly, Mom!”

At the mention of her sister’s name, Mom deflates suddenly, and looks away for a moment. “I can see,” she finally says, in a controlled, modulated tone she always uses to get what she wants, “that you’re very upset, Betty, and I understand. I know it’s been very difficult for you since Polly-,”

“I’m not Polly!” Betty snaps. “Oh my god- I’m not, Mom! I’m my own person! You have to stop treating me like- like her clone, or something! Okay! Just admit you and Dad messed up with her! Because otherwise-,” Because otherwise, as soon as Betty gets into Yale and graduates, she’s never going to speak to them again.

Mom is silent, pale face drawn, and for a few moments Betty thinks she might cry, although her mother has never been a crier, but then she just shakes her head, and says, “You’re right. You’re not,” and leaves the room, shutting Betty’s door quietly behind her. Part of Betty wants to run after her and apologize- it’s not all Mom’s fault, and Polly was never going to be easy to parent, Jason or no Jason, but-

She sits down on her bed, feeling selfish and triumphant and embarrassed all at once, and calls Archie back.


	6. Chapter 6

Archie, at the age of fifteen, still cannot tie a tie. This exasperates Dad to no end, but he still tells Archie, just fondly enough to outweigh the bitterness, “Your mom had to do it for me for a while there.” Mom used to do Archie’s ties as well, but now her quick, able fingers have been replaced by Dad’s patient fumbling.

He resists the urge to jerk away, and Dad takes full advantage of having him held hostage, since Archie needs a ride to the dance as well. “Arch, listen. Coach emailed me. About the varsity thing.” He pauses. “He seems to think I’m overworking you.”

Archie would rather Dad were pissed off with him for bullshitting Coach about construction and bullshitting him about football. Instead Dad’s just tired, which is somehow worse. Archie doesn’t think he’s a difficult kid. It’s not like he sneaks out or does drugs or is constantly stumbling home drunk. He does his homework, most of the time, and even if his grades aren’t spectacular, at least he’s not failing anything, right? 

“You’re not,” he says shortly. “I- I just don’t know if I wanna play varsity, is all.”

“You’re a great player, Archie,” Dad says seriously, giving his tie a little tug for emphasis, “and you need that sort of thing for-,”

“Because I’m too dumb to get into college otherwise, I know,” Archie mutters, and Dad lets go of his tie, black, like his suit. The dance is supposed to be black and white, since it’s being held in honor of a dead kid and everything. Archie doesn’t care, although his suit is a little tight in the shoulders since his latest growth spurt.

“That’s not true,” Dad frowns, “and you know it. But it does look good on applications, and you want to get into a great school for business-,”

“So I can work for you,” Archie finishes for him, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah.”

“And one day you’ll work for yourself, and you’ll be the guy calling the shots,” Dad continues, unfazed. “Archie, come on. Last year you were so excited to start helping me out-,”

Last year I was an idiot, Archie thinks, and a virgin. And maybe he is still an idiot but- but since this summer, he feels different. Almost empty, somehow. Like there’s a hole inside him he never knew needed to be filled. And music helps. Music helps make the hole a little less cavernous and hollow. 

“I miss when you could still talk to your old man,” Dad grumbles, but seeing that Archie isn’t interested in continuing the mostly one-sided conversation, grabs his keys. “Alright. Let’s get going, Casanova.”

He immediately spots Betty as soon as he’s out of the car; she’s wearing her hair down for once, and it’s curlier than usual, falling in ringlets around her shoulders. He hasn’t seen Betty in a dress since their eighth grade graduation, but she looks nice, in a simple white dress that reveals her tanned shoulders and arms and comes down just past the knee. She’s even wearing heels, although they can’t be more than an inch or two.

When she turns, she smiles so happily at him, lipstick glistening on her pink mouth and green eyes vivid behind the mascara, that she’s almost beautiful. And of course Betty is pretty. She’s always pretty. But he stares at her in shock for a moment before turning to see Kevin and Veronica. Kevin is wearing a white tux, because of course, and his hair is gelled back. 

Veronica is wearing a short black dress with a cutout in the chest area, which crosses at the neck. Her lipstick is leaning towards purple, and her heels are high enough that she’s almost as tall as Betty. She looks hot, there’s no denying it, and years older than fifteen as she tucks a piece of black hair behind her ear, where crystals dangle. “Let’s blow this pop stand,” she says with a small, bemused smirk, linking her arm with Kevin’s.

Archie cautiously offers his to Betty, and she latches on immediately as they enter the school. Pop music is blasting in the gym, but the decorations look nice, as do all the photos of Jason. Jason, whose position on varsity is being offered to Archie. Jason, whose last moments Archie might have overhead while he was fucking his teacher on the bluffs. Jason, who’s dead.

He wishes he had something to drink, preferably stronger than punch. He goes to get some, while Kevin slips off to God knows where, and he makes eye contact with the teachers chaperoning on the sidelines as he does so. Ms. Grundy is there, in a blouse and black pencil skirt. He wants to smile at her, or scream at her, but he can’t, so his throat tightens at the tiny nod she gives him. It’s not fair.

“Did you make up your mind yet?” Betty asks him, when he makes his way back to their table, dodging grinding couples and a few stoners. “About varsity?”

“You’re playing on varsity?” Veronica blurts out. “As a sophomore.”

Archie is torn between frustration and pride. “I- um- maybe? I don’t know, I’m just- this week has been a lot.”

“I think you should,” Betty says decisively. “It would look so good for colleges, Arch, and you deserve it-,”

Deserve it? What the hell does he deserve, anyways? Varsity? A girlfriend? The construction company? Archie doesn’t know anymore, and the gym feels very hot and stuffy. His mouth is dry. “I have- I’ll be right back,” he stumbles. “Bathroom.”

Veronica arches an eyebrow and pulls Betty out of her seat. “Come find us on the dance floor.”

Betty looks like she wants to trail after him, but disappears into the throng of bodies writhing to Bruno Mars. Archie almost jogs out of the gym and into the much cooler hallway, turning towards the bathrooms around the corner, and almost collides with Kevin.

“Whoa,” says Kevin, who is flushed bright red but strangely giddy. “Tell Moose I said hi,” he calls over his shoulder almost gleefully as he fast walks back towards the dance.

Archie is still frowning in confusion when he hears the familiar click of heels behind him. In the shadowed alcove near the bathrooms, he and Ms. Grundy position themselves first as student and teacher, and then he comes closer.

“Archibald,” she says sharply, and he stops, feeling guilty and embarrassed, like his mom caught him watching porn or something.

“We should have told someone,” he says, in a voice barely above a murmur. 

“Don’t be-,” she takes him by the arm, and he feels like his skin is tingling with static under his clothes as they back into an empty classroom. Ms. Grundy stands by the door, looking deeply uncomfortable but also deeply infuriated with him. “You need to get a hold of yourself,” she tells him in a voice that wavers between stern teacher and irate woman. “If you keep acting like this-,”

“We heard a gunshot,” he insists.

“Maybe,” she says tightly. “Maybe we did. We can’t jump to conclusions, Archie.”

“But if we had called the police-,”

“You’re acting-,” she purses her lips together. They’re thin, but her lipstick is a bright, girlish pink. “What’s done is done. But you-,”

 

“No,” he says, from deeper in his throat, and he feels almost like Dad, like a man, self-assured. “Ms. Grun- Geraldine, I want,” he almost coughs on it, “I want to do independent study with you three times a week. Otherwise- otherwise I’m telling Sheriff Keller, and whatever-,”

For a moment her eyes flash and he rocks back almost timidly, but then Ms. Grundy composes herself, and says, “Don’t be rash, Archie. Of course I’ll help you with your music. But there are some things-,” and now she steps forward and her fingers brush his jaw, “that we should keep to ourselves, right?”

“Right,” he says thickly, and then steps away because if he kisses her he doesn’t think he’ll stop.

When he walks back into the gym, feeling slightly calmer, although his hands are clammy, Cheryl is giving yet another speech. Her dress is nowhere near ‘semiformal’ and dark red, almost crimson, at that, with a slit up one side. A few teachers look like they’re on the verge of interrupting her, but with Jason smiling down from every corner, none of them have the nerve.

“Tonight, in honor of Jason and the Blossom family’s love for another,” she gushes, “and for all of you, Josie and the Pussycats will be playing the song my parents say inspired the conception of my brother and myself- ‘Praying for Time’!”

Principal Weatherbee snatches the mic back from her as she saunters away from the makeshift stage, where Josie McCoy, Valerie Brown, and Melody Valentine, decked out in all black and their trademark cat ears they wear at every single performance, no matter how many ‘good pussy’ comments they get, start the song.

_These are the days of the open hand; they will not be the last…_

Betty timidly taps him on the shoulder. Archie musters up a grin. “Wanna dance?” he asks, and she nods, blushing.

He glances around as he leads her out onto the floor, but Veronica must be dancing with someone else by now. She probably has a waiting list.

_This is the year of the hungry man, whose place is in the past…_

“So I think I am playing varsity,” he says, more confidently than he feels, as he struggles to find some sense of rhythm.

Betty smiles. “That’s great. It’ll be more time, but it’ll be good for you, right? You love football.”

He does. It just seems so… petty compared to everything else in his life right now.

_But we’ll take our chances, ‘cause God’s stopped keeping score…_

Betty is silent for a few moments, and he’s not sure what to say. Her hands are shaking slightly on his shoulders. But if he asks ‘are you okay?’ he’ll ruin it, whatever it is, and the last thing he wants to do is upset Betty, although if she knew- if she knew about this summer, she’d be furious with him, and for good reason. They’ve always been pretty similar, Betty Cooper and Archie Andrews. ABC. 

Except he doesn’t think Betty had the same kind of summer he did, LA or not.

_And it's hard to love, there's so much to hate…_

“I have to ask you something,” she says, at the same time as he asks, uncertainly, “Bet?”

They both laugh nervously, and then she plunges on. He can tell by the way her eyes narrow when she focuses and her faces goes taught and sharp. “I- do you like me?” she asks, in a small, slightly shrill voice. “I mean- as like- as like more than a friend, Arch. Like… like maybe, a girlfriend?”

He stares at her blankly, mind racing and stalling at the same time. Reggie has been saying that ‘Cooper wants that Andrews dick!’ for years, but Archie has always just told him to shut the hell up about her. But- it’s not like this is a complete surprise, he just- him and Betty? Betty and him? Maybe he’s always felt like they are together, will always be together, just- he doesn’t know. She’s so pretty, and smart, and compassionate, and he’s-

He’s Archie Andrews, shitty student and shittier person, taking a dead dude’s jersey number and sleeping with his goddamn music teacher. He’s not really- he feels like such a fucking fraud. Betty thinks he’s… well, he’s not what she thinks he is, and he probably won’t ever be again.

_Well maybe we should all be praying for time…_

Her face crumples, and she lets go of him and walks quickly off the dance floor. Archie starts to go after her, then stops. No one seems to notice. He feels very alone, surrounded by couples moving simultaneously, watching Betty’s white dress disappear into the balloons and ribbons and bleachers.


	7. Chapter 7

Veronica knows this is a bad idea, but over the course of her fifteen years on this Earth she’s had a lot of bad ideas, and this is fairly tame in comparison. She isn’t going on a bender or stealing credit cards. It’s just an after-party. A small town, Riverdale, after-party. They’re not about to hit up the clubs with their fake IDs. She’s preparing herself for a kegger down by the river, really.

Yes, the rules of female friendship, however new, decree that she should have left after Archie and Betty fought- because they had to have fought, why else would Betty have ran out and called her mom to pick her up without so much as a word?- but Betty didn’t even tell her that she was leaving, so Veronica feels less guilty than she maybe should.

Besides, she doesn’t want the night to be irredeemable just because of a lovers’ quarrel. The dance was mind-numbingly dull, and an after-party hosted by Cheryl Blossom, as much as Veronica loves to despise her, promises to be at least entertaining. And what better way to stick it to Cheryl than by showing up at her mansion?

She just didn’t expect it to be an actual, constructed in 1830-something, Gothic manor. Veronica has been in plenty of big houses, but this is a different level of old money grandeur. The stonework isn’t imitation, its original, and the floors and doors creak and groan like something out of a period drama. There are animal heads everywhere- apparently the Blossoms are hunters, or were, and she’s pretty sure the bearskin rug in the study is real.

Refusing to show any sign of nerves, especially since she doesn’t have Betty to lean on- not that Mrs. Cooper would have ever let her precious little girl set foot in Blossom territory- she sits ramrod straight on the leather couch, swishing the tequila in her cup around. Veronica, despite her diminutive size, is far from a lightweight- she had her first drink at twelve. Which probably wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world, but so far, she still has all of her brain cells.

Cheryl is sipping a margarita like she’s on a pleasure cruise, eyes darting around the room, before she snatches up Reggie Mantle’s newly empty bottle and sets it on the table in the center of the group of teenagers. “Let’s play Seven Minutes in Heaven,” she declares in a tone that leaves no room for argument or dismissal. 

Veronica scoffs under her breath anyways. What is this, 1987?

The bottle spins anyways, and points somewhat in the direction of Archie, who is already a bit tipsy, standing in a corner talking to that big kid with the deep voice- Bear? No, Moose. “Give me an A for Archibald!”

Cheryl gives a mock cheer and takes another sip of her drink; she’s got good composure for someone well on her way to White Girl Wasted, but from the slight giggly waver to her voice, Veronica thinks she’ll be crying her eyes out and vomiting her guts out within the hour.

Archie just looks confused as Cheryl spins the bottle again. It points towards Veronica and Josie McCoy, who’s perched next to her and clearly only here out of politeness, texting furiously. “And V for Veronica,” Cheryl says smugly. “Tick tock. Coat closet’s the way,” she nods to the left.

“Pass,” Veronica shrugs, although part of her wants to say yes, just to see what will happen. But she’s trying to be friends with Betty, and being friends with Betty probably doesn’t include making out with her wannabe-boyfriend at Cheryl’s party. That actually seems like the quickest way to get on Betty’s bad side. 

Cheryl tilts her head in challenge, brown eyes wide in the dim light of the study. “Fine. I’ll take your turn.”

Archie looks like a wounded puppy. Veronica sighs and gets up, downing the rest of her drink. He trails after her somewhat hesitantly into the closet, where she quickly slams the door shut to muffle the jeers and cries from outside. If she has to spend seven minutes in a surprisingly spacious coat closet with someone, she’d rather it be with Archie, who seems more like an emotional drunk than a pervy drunk. 

“Sorry if I ruined your shot with Cheryl,” she comments dryly, debating taking off her shoes. Broken in or not, her five inch heels are killing her after two hours on the dance floor and tramping up and down what seemed like every stairwell in the Blossom household. 

“Cheryl’s evil,” he replies with a slow grin. So he’s an honest drunk. Great. She’s starting to feel the heady warmth of the tequila herself, a pleasant buzz blooming in her head. 

“Super evil,” she agrees, sitting down on a box and undoing the straps on her heels, which are starting to chafe against her ankles. 

“You probably miss the city.” He’s not quite slurring yet, but he’s close. But the look on his face is so earnest and open she can’t get annoyed.

“It hasn’t even been a week yet,” she points out, but he’s right. She does miss it. Even the shitty parties here are quieter. Then again, Cheryl probably thought twice of blasting Flo Rida through a house presumably containing two grieving parents. If they’re even home. What seems like most of the school is here, even if that’s probably only two hundred something people. 

He’s silent, staring mournfully into the depths of his empty red solo cup, so she asks, boredly, “What’d you say to Betty?”

Archie glances at her reproachfully, but then hangs his head in shame. “I didn’t say anything. That’s… why she left. ‘Cause she wanted to…,” he swallows hard, “um-,”

Oh. Betty finally worked up the courage to ask him out, and he couldn’t even give her a kind ‘no’. What an idiot.

“If you’re not into her, you should have just said so.” It’s her turn to be reproachful. “It’s pretty obvious she has a crush.”

“She’s my friend,” he whines. “My best friend, Ver- Veronica. I love Bet, she’s just… I dunno.” He exhales in drunken defeat. “I just don’t think of her… like a girlfriend.” He looks at her. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” she retorts impatiently. “And I’m not looking for one.”

“I wasn’t asking-,”

“I know.” She pauses, and then, since she feels oddly safe, despite being in a darkened closet with a boy she barely knows, adds, “I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Not like, a real one. ‘Dating’ for a week in like, seventh grade, doesn’t count, I think.”

He blinks at her owlishly. “Really? Because you-,”

“Because I look like a slut?” she smiles sardonically.

“No,” Archie says softly. “You look really lovely.”

Really lovely. He’s a fifteen year old football jock turned poet, apparently, but she is a fifteen year old girl, so she blushes and feels flattered anyways, and sort of stands up to kiss him, not actually intending to go through with it. But he bends down, since their difference in height is even more pronounced with her barefoot, and kisses her first before she can back out of it.

Veronica doesn’t think he’d get pushy or annoyed if she jerked away, but she doesn’t want to jerk away, because Archie Andrews is a surprisingly good kisser, even while mildly drunk, and even if she hates the taste of Sam Adams on his warm lips. It’s almost modest; he doesn’t go for any tongue, and his hands stay safely on her shoulders.

She deepens it for a moment, then breaks away guiltily, and they spend the next few minutes trading ashamed glances and occasional pecks, until Reggie throws open the door, crowing. Veronica tosses him a disdainful look, plucks up her shoes, and stalks out directly into the flash of Cheryl’s phone camera.

“I think I’ll caption it ‘post 7 minutes with Easy-A’,” Cheryl muses. 

Veronica bats her phone out of her hand with one errant swat, and Cheryl rears back in surprise as she shoulders past her and out into the hall. She needs to call an Uber, and go home. This has to be a record for the shortest length of time she’s ever spent at any party- when she gets back to the Pembroke it’s barely past midnight. Not that she has a curfew to worry about. Mom was a lax parent in the city. In sleepy Riverdale she’s almost encouraging of Veronica’s floundering social life. She texted back hearts when Veronica let her know she was going to a party. 

She’s in a foul mood as she bypasses her mother on the sofa- Mom watches a lot of TV now, in between the job search. “Mija, are you okay?” she asks sleepily. 

“Fine,” Veronica snaps, and then sits in her room, which feels more like a cell, with it’s one, small window, overlooking the dark river. She changes out of her dress and into her favorite silky pajamas, and wishes she’d gotten properly wasted. At least she’d be in a better mood. She’s always been a happy, bubbly drunk. 

Eventually there’s a soft knock at her door, and she says nothing when Mom comes in, looking suitably concerned, hair pulled back in a loose bun. Veronica doesn’t like seeing Mom like this. She used to wear makeup to bed, for God’s sake. Always ready for Dad to come home at whatever hour of the night. Lodge women always stand by their men.

Yeah, Mom is the definition of loyal. Veronica think it’s pitiful. And admirable. It’s not like she wanted Mom to denounce Daddy in front of every reporter in downstate New York. She just sometimes wishes she was inheriting a different legacy. Mom’s never worked a day in her life. 

Veronica’s not chomping at the bit to become a wage slave but- she doesn’t like the idea of being beholden to someone for the rest of her life. Daddy gave Mom everything, and Mom knows damn well he can take it all away at the drop of a hat, if he doesn’t lose it for them first.

“Did something happen at the party?” Mom asks delicately. “If they’re being cruel to you-,”

“Shockingly, Riverdale doesn’t revolve around us and our problems, Mom,” Veronica mutters. “Nothing happened. I just bailed. I was sick of being around people.” 

Mom looks skeptical, but doesn’t push it. “It’s only your first week, cariño. Things will get better, you’ll see. You’ve always been so popular. Everyone loves you.”

“Everyone loved me at Spence because of the money,” Veronica says darkly. “Look what happened once that dried up. Whatever, Mom. It’s not like they all hate me here. I just-,” she exhales instead.

Mom sits down on the bed next to her. “I know, Ronnie. I miss your father too.”

Veronica doesn’t miss Daddy, actually, since he was never really around to begin with, and she always had to act like some sweet little girl in front of him, always, because she was Daddy’s little princess and he was always so ‘tired’ and ‘stressed’ from work so her and Mom had to tiptoe around him and smile happily and she’s so fucking relieved that that show is over, even if it’s only temporarily. Maybe she misses the idea of him. The idea of a man giving a shit about her mother or her. Wow. What a novel idea. Betty’s dad probably thinks the world of her: smart, pretty, hardworking, caring. 

Instead she just nods, because that’s what Mom wants to think, that this, like everything else, is all about Daddy, their lord and savior, who’s going to rise up out of the ashes any moment and save them from the horrors of minimum wage jobs and a two bedroom, one bathroom apartment. And what a wonderful world it will be, the Lodges reunited. The inevitability of it all.

Veronica actually does start to cry a little then, and Mum sighs and coos and pulls her to her to stroke her hair and hum under her breath. Veronica sinks into it, and tries to forget her stupid, banal life, whether it’s in New York or this backwater shithole.


	8. Chapter 8

Jughead is sitting in his usual corner booth at Pop’s, chugging black coffee at a half hour past midnight, writing. He has a half hour until the diner shuts down for the night and Pop kicks him out. He has a half hour until he has to go home. He ignores the dread pooling in his stomach, along with his long since cold coffee, and keeps typing. It’s fine. Dad will probably be passed out by now. 

And if he’s not, Jughead will just spend the night at the drive-in. It’s not a big deal.

His back is killing him from sitting hunched over his laptop for so long- he’s been here since ten- and his vision is going blurry, but if he’s writing he doesn’t have to think. And Jughead likes not having to think. He likes it a lot, which is why he doesn’t like to sit and do nothing, because that means being alone with his thoughts. When he’s home and has wifi, he games if he’s not reading, match after match until the sun starts coming up, headphones blocking out all other noise. 

If he’s not gaming, he’s writing. If he’s not writing, he’s out tagging. If he’s not tagging, he’s smoking, because when he’s high it’s a pleasant haze and he can just sit and be without his brain tearing itself into tiny pieces, like a little kid shredding a napkin. Jellybean always does that to her napkins. She probably gets it from Dad. They both do. Jughead doesn’t like the fact that Dad always seems to win, even if it means everyone else is losing. 

Leave it to FP Jones to come out on top, even if it means he has to ground everyone else into the dirt first. A real go-getter, that’s Dad. You know, when he’s not drunk.

The bell at the door tinkles and Jughead hunches his shoulders reflexively. Southsiders aren’t in Pop’s much, except to occasionally conduct drug deals in the back lot, but the last thing he needs is one of Dad’s ‘friends’ sidling up to him to ask about favors from his old man or when he’s joining up. As if Jughead just can’t wait to join Dad’s noble fucking ranks of coked out kids who probably won’t live to see their next birthday and recent parolees who spend their free time beating the shit out of their girlfriends.

But it’s not a Southsider- it’s the exact opposite, really, as Archie jogs in, looking around frantically. Their gazes meet for a moment before Jughead scowls and looks away, as Archie asks about something at the counter before hesitantly plodding over. “Hey,” he says, clearly a little drunk, but still cognizant enough to realize that Jughead probably doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“Can I sit-,”

“Yeah,” mutters Jughead, because he’s not about to cause a scene and get kicked out. His typing grows more frenetic.

“I’m looking for Betty,” Archie confesses openly. “I really fucked up tonight.”

“Wow,” says Jughead, without looking up, “Archie Andrews, a fuck up? Impossible.”

It’s petty of him to still be holding a grudge. They’re not thirteen year old girls. But he thinks it’s kind of grudge-worthy when your best fucking friend in the entire world and the only person who gives a shit about you or your fucked up home life decides to ditch you all summer so he can hook up with some random chick, just because he’s never gotten his dick wet before.

Not that Jughead has, either, but he’s got more important things to worry about than girls. Not Archie, though. No, Archie’s main concerns in life seem to be football, women, and creating arguments out of thin air to have with his perfectly normal, loving parent, because there’s just not enough excitement in poor Archie Andrews’ dull, humdrum life.

“I know you’re mad,” Archie lays his head down on the table mournfully. “I said I was sorry, Jug.”

“I’m not mad,” Jughead retorts, in a clipped, terse voice. “I’m trying to write, and you’re wasted.”

God, he fucking hates drunk people. At least Archie’s just a sad drunk. Dad’s a ‘put his fist through the trailer’s shitty, thin walls’ drunk. Jughead knows he shouldn’t complain, because it could be a lot worse. Dad’s dad, FP Jones I, was a ‘beat your son bloody with a belt’ drunk’. At least the genetic alcoholism is becoming more civilized over time.

But then there’s the fact that the reason Jughead doesn’t come home when Dad’s awake and decidedly not-sober is that at the end of freshman year Dad got trashed and didn’t just hit the walls. And Jughead’s not trying to make a big deal out of it because it wasn’t a big deal and Dad felt bad and he even cried a little the next morning and told Jughead he was sorry and he didn’t mean to hit him so hard and it wouldn’t happen again-

And Jughead had asked, while he shoved as much shit into his backpack as would fit, “Is that what you used to tell Mom, before she left you?”

And Dad didn’t say ‘no, of course not, I would never hit your mother, Jughead, I love her, I want her to come home, I love you, I want us to be a family again-’. He didn’t say anything at all. And Jughead’s jaw had really fucking hurt, because he’s tall like Dad but nowhere near as muscular, he’s got Mom’s thin frame and blue eyes, and even though Dad was so drunk he could barely stand he still had a right hook like a fucking powerhouse. 

So maybe Jughead should have taken it like a man, and pretended it never happened, and he would have, if Dad had said ‘no’. Even if he’d been lying through his teeth. And Dad had never done it before, and Jughead never saw him hit Mom, but he did see him scream at her, and back her into a corner. 

Even if Mom could yell just as much she was always a little skinny thing and there was something like fear in her eyes whenever Dad got nasty and loud, when she’d make Jughead and Jelly go down to the basement and watch a movie so they wouldn’t hear the screaming. But maybe it was so they wouldn’t hear something else. Jughead doesn’t like to think about that.

“M’sorry,” Archie whines, muffled and pathetic. “What’re you… what’re you writing about?”

“Jason,” Jughead says after a moment. “And this town.”

“Jason’s dead,” Archie sighs, and Jughead snorts.

“No shit.”

“Jason’s dead and Betty hates me, and it’s all my fault,” Archie continues, and then looks up at Jughead. “And you hate me too.”

“I don’t hate you.” That at least isn’t a lie. Jughead might be pissed off at Archie and his bullshit, but he doesn’t hate him. It takes a lot of energy to hate someone, and Jughead honestly just doesn’t have that much left at the end of the day, to lie awake and stew about Archie ditching him for some summer fling. Some days he doesn’t even have it in him to hate Dad, although he probably should. 

“You don’t?” Archie sounds hopeful, which is somehow even more irritating. 

“No, dumbass,” Jughead groans, leaning back in his seat with a sigh. There’s no point in acting like he’s going to never speak to Archie again. They both know that won’t happen. It’d take a lot more for Jughead to throw away ten years of friendship, even if Archie’s a fucking idiot who thinks with his dick more often than not. “How’d you get here? Don’t tell me you biked.”

“Reggie gave me a ride.”

“Was he sober?”

Archie shrugs innocently.

Jughead wonders briefly why he even bothered to ask, and closes his laptop. “Guess I’m walking your ass home.” He’d probably feel at least a little guilty if Archie wound up in the river because Jughead let him stumble home drunk. Even if it’d be his own damn fault.

He walks Archie out of the diner and into the quiet dark; there’s a corn moon overhead and a solemn stillness to the air. Jughead walks a bit brisker than Archie, winding their way along the side of the river towards Archie’s neighborhood, which he normally would spend plenty of time in, but has avoided all summer- he’s kept out of the Northside in general, aside from the drive in, which is really more neutral ground between the two parts of town.

They’re only a few blocks away when Jughead hears something, and stops walking. Archie stumbles into his back- Jughead still has an inch or two on him in height, much to his smug satisfaction. He was always the gangly one, whereas Archie was a short, stocky kid. With a carrot top to boot. A prime target for bullies, except that he hung out with a freak like Jughead, whose dad was a criminal and who infamously tried to burn down the elementary school in fifth grade.

Jughead listens, and then hears it again- a faint shout in the darkness. “Stay here,” he tells Archie seriously, and resists the urge to scream when Archie follows him anyway as he scrambles down through the wooded hill towards the bank of the river. Someone is yelling, and Jughead would be a pretty shitty aspiring true crime novelist if he didn’t investigate. Besides, it’s not like he’s completely helpless. He’s got a knife on him, even if he’ll never touch a gun.

He scrambles through dead leaves and long grass, stomping through the underbrush, which scratches at his already worn jeans, before bursting out onto the river bank, Archie not far behind. And then someone crashes into him, bowling Jughead over and onto the damp ground. He scrabbles for the knife, but belatedly realizes it’s Moose Mason, not a serial killer. A drunk, panicking Moose Mason. 

“Call the cops,” Moose gasps, panting for breath. “Fucking- call the cops, man! Call someone!”

Jughead slowly gets to his feet, staring at Moose, who is soaking wet and clad only in boxers, and then past him at another form approaching.

“Kevin?” Archie slurs in confusion, as the second boy approaches, a bit more composed than Moose, but similarly stunned looking.

Jughead gapes at Kevin, who is hurriedly putting his shirt back on, jeans soaked through and shoes missing. “What the fuck are you guys-,”

“It’s Jason,” Kevin says blankly, running a shaking hand through his unusually wavy blond hair, shining palely in the moonlight. “We- it’s Jason. In the river.”

“You found Jason?” Jughead blurts out. “He’s-,”

“He got shot,” Moose says shakily, “in the fucking head, man-,” and then he turns and retches into the water.

Archie steps back with a grimace.

Jughead is still trying to process this information, along with their appearance. What the hell were they doing down by the river, half dressed? He knows Kevin’s into guys, but Moose? Doesn’t Moose have a girlfriend or something? Furthermore, how the fuck did they stumble upon Jason’s corpse randomly, when the police searched the entire river for weeks after Jason supposedly drowned?

“Jason’s body,” he says slowly, “is in the river- shot?”

“He’s been there for like a month,” Kevin looks close to vomiting himself. “It’s- but it’s him, the hair, the clothes- his head,” he shakes his head, “it’s bad, we have to call my dad-,”

Archie has taken out his phone, and fumbling, hands it to Jughead, who glances down the expanse of the river, pitch black and deceptively peaceful, before dialing 911, something he’s never actually done before, despite coming close a few times, when Mom and Dad were throwing things at each other.

“Riverdale Police, what is your emergency?”

“This is Jughead Jones at the Sweetwater,” Jughead says hoarsely, looking from Moose, who is still puking, to Kevin, who has dropped down into a crouch, to Archie, who is staring into the depths of the river as if something, or someone is staring back at him, “by the intersection of French Street and Eden Lane. We just found Jason Blossom’s body.”

The sirens can be heard from the police station four blocks away mere moments later.


	9. Chapter 9

Betty really doesn’t want to go to school, but not going to school means faking sick, and that hasn’t worked on Mom since the first grade. So instead she’s sullenly brushing her teeth, after what was probably the worst weekend of her life. 

Not only did Archie completely humiliate her at the stupid dance she never should have gone to by basically just staring at her blankly after she finally, after years of angsting about it, got up the nerve to ask him out, then she had to deal with text messages and snaps all night about how he and Veronica went to Cheryl’s stupid after-party and basically made out and did God knows what else in a closet.

So. She’s now down her best friend since kindergarten, a new friend she actually thought she could trust, and Mom and Dad have been freaking out since the news broke that they found Jason’s body. The autopsy’s not due to come out until the end of the week, but Mom’s been down at the morgue almost every day anyways, while Dad churns out editorials about how it was probably an inside job.

Betty really couldn’t care less about Jason Blossom and what happened to him at the moment, even though it’s awful of her. Jason was only seventeen and if someone actually shot him in the head of course he deserves justice. But Jason has been dead for two months, and Betty’s life seems to be breaking into pieces. She’s not going to be able to handle the humiliation at school today. Cheryl’s probably even crazier than usual, Betty will have to pretend like nothing happened with Archie and Veronica, and-

“Betty,” Mom says, arms folded across her conservative baby blue cardigan, standing in the bathroom doorway. “You’re going to be late if you don’t get a move on, sweetie. I know you’re upset about what happened with Archie and the Lodge girl, but,” she pauses to summon up a properly judgmental stare, “I did warn you, honey.”

Betty spits her toothpaste out into the sink and imagines it’s her mother’s face. “I’m not upset,” she mutters. “I’m just tired.”

Mom makes a skeptical noise. “You want to be friends with everyone, Betty. You’re such a sweet girl. But you’re not a child anymore, and the real world… it’s not a nice place to people who trust too easily.” She puts a hand on Betty’s shoulder in comfort, but Betty shakes it off and sidles around her.

“You just said I’m going to be late. See you tonight.”

“We’ll be working late tonight,” Mom calls after her as Betty shrugs on her jacket and hurries downstairs. “Don’t wait up, sweetie!”

There’s a light rain misting outside, and her bike skitters down the lane as she adjusts her backpack and scrunches her brow. She’s just rounding the corner when she hears, “Betty! Wait up!” and her stomach jolts. Great.

Her and Archie used to race bikes all the time down these streets, and now she’s trying to out-ride him in vain, knowing it’s a losing battle she’s forced to stop due to traffic at the intersection, and he catches up to her, panting. 

“I’m not talking to you,” she says shortly, and immaturely, as he struggles to form a coherent apology.

“Betty, I’m sorry, I didn’t- you’re my best friend, I swear, I just- I didn’t know what to do, and I was drunk at Cheryl’s party- Veronica and I kissed a little, and that’s it, we didn’t-,” she can see his blush out of the corner of her eye, “we didn’t do anything else. I’m so, so sorry Betty. I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

Of course he didn’t do it to hurt her. Archie’s not the type. There’s not a spiteful bone in his body. He’s not malicious or snide or underhanded. He’s just so fucking oblivious and- selfish, even if he doesn’t mean to be. In his mind, it’s all about his feelings and what he wants and his problems- well, Betty wants to tell him there’s a lot worse problems someone could have than juggling guitar and football. 

She says nothing, and they pedal in silence, aside from the splatter of puddles forming on the pavement. He actually looks close to tears. Betty feels bad, but not bad enough to thaw out. Let him suffer for a bit. Of course she’s not going to follow Mom’s order-disguised-as-advice and never speak to him again. He’s Archie, and she’s Betty. It doesn’t work like that. But she thinks she has the right to be angry with him for longer than five minutes, which is the current record.

He knows better than to push it, though, and leaves her be once they arrive at school and Betty hurries inside, as the light rain becomes more of a cold drizzle. She has first period Honors English with Kevin. At least she doesn’t have to worry about Veronica, and she hasn’t really talked to Kevin since Friday- she’s worried about him, he did find a dead body floating in the river, after all.

But Kevin looks remarkably at ease for a supposedly traumatized fifteen year old, and greets her with a sympathetic smile as she takes her seat beside him. “So I hear we both had pretty shitty weekends,” he says sardonically.

“You more than me,” Betty frowns, her hand on his desk. “Seriously, Kev, are you okay? I don’t know if I’d even be in school right now, if it had been me.”

“Well, obviously not, B, your mom would have you locked up in the psych ward if it’d been you,” Kevin snorts, and she swats him on the shoulder, feeling relieved that he seems mostly normal. She’d feel even worse if she was torn between comforting him and stewing over Archie and Veronica, since the obvious choice would be to comfort, you know, her friend who found an actual, decaying corpse in the middle of the night.

“Look,” Kevin says, tapping his pen on his binder frantically, “I’m fine, Betty. Honestly, it was kind of more awkward than anything else, because… well,” he lowers his voice, “Moose was there and everything, and then my dad showed up, and kind of freaked out-,”

“About you and Moose?” Betty knows Sheriff Keller loves his son, but she’s not really sure if he’s gotten used to the whole… Kevin liking guys thing yet. He’s an older parent and Kevin’s mom is in the army and always away, and she knows at least some of his sarcasm and flippancy is just pure defense mechanism, because if he doesn’t care, no one else can either.

Kevin rolls his eyes, although he’s clearly uncomfortable talking about. “About that, and me being sort of… half dressed… and it being almost one in the morning… and us being down by the river. And I did sort of lie to his face and tell him I was over at your house.”

Betty cringes. “He’s just worried about you. My parents would kill me if they ever found me down by the river.”

He gives her a look along the lines of ‘your parents would kill you for a lot of things, Betty’, and shrugs. “Well, I’m on lockdown for the rest of the month. Not that he can actually enforce it, down at the station all day.”

Betty is about to tell him that he should listen to his poor father, who’s probably at his wits’ ends- there hasn’t been a murder in Riverdale, at least in the Northside, for years- when there’s a flurry of motion and Veronica Lodge rushes into the room, skittering in her heels and mini-skirt. Betty exhales in dread and Kevin adopts a look of grim acknowledgement as the brunette makes a beeline for their desks.

There’s a box in her arms, which she places down on Betty’s desk with a distraught look, as if she’s consoling someone at a funeral. Either Veronica is an excellent actress, or she really is upset, because she looks like a shame-faced little girl confronted with a disappointed parent, not a spiteful bitch who couldn’t care less about Betty’s feelings.

“I got you cupcakes,” she says immediately, hands digging into her maroon skirt. “Betty, I am so, so sorry. What I did was selfish and stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking- I wasn’t, I guess. I was drunk and I didn’t mean for it to go that far, I swear, it was just a stupid party game. I know you’re probably furious with me, but I just wanted to apologize. With cupcakes,” she tacks on, red-faced, at the end.

Betty looks at the cupcakes. They look… expensive. And delicious. Are luxury cupcakes really a thing? She doesn’t know what to think, to be honest. It’s over the top and ridiculous if Veronica thinks she can make up for making out with Archie with freaking cupcakes, but she seems completely serious. It’s not some weird joke. She really is sorry, and worried that Betty hates her. Which, Betty kind of does, but she already had to begin with, since the first moment Archie looked at her like she was everything, and Betty sat next to himself, feeling like nothing.

A few people are staring at them curiously, and Mrs. Rooney is bustling into the classroom with her books. They’re about to start reading The Scarlet Letter. “Um,” says Betty, annoyed that she feels like the embarrassed one, when this is all Veronica’s fault anyways. “Thanks?”

“Can you give me another chance?” Veronica asks earnestly, playing with her necklace. 

Betty resists the urge to throw the box of cupcakes in her face, sucks it up, like she’s been sucking it up for fifteen years, and nods. “Sure. I know you… didn’t mean it.” She doesn’t, but she does really believe that Veronica was not thinking of her at all on Friday night. It wasn’t some sadistic, Cheryl-inspired ‘steal your man’ thing. Neither Veronica nor Archie were thinking of her at all. And that’s what hurts the most.

Veronica’s face breaks in open relief, and she grins. “Oh my god, thank you. I promise I’ll make it up to you, Betty. Um- I’ll see you at lunch, I’m going to be late!” She hurries out, heels clicking, as the late bell rings. 

Kevin looks at Betty skeptically as he fishes in the box for a cupcake. At her eyebrows raising he raises a hand in defense. “Hey, I’m traumatized, remember? Sugar helps. But don’t tell me you’re actually going to take that. She’s just trying to make sure you don’t shit talk her to the entire school a week into sophomore year.”

“Like anyone cares about what I think,” Betty groans. Veronica is already cool, and she’s only been here a week. Everyone says Chuck Clayton has his eye on her. Chuck’s a senior, and the star quarterback. His dad coaches varsity. 

“Aren’t you taking over the school paper this year?” Kevin snickers. “You could do a whole hit piece: Veronica Lodge, Ginger Stealing Harlot-,”

Betty shushes him and snaps open her book as Mrs. Rooney starts class. “Stop it. It’s fine. She’ll probably have ditched me by next week anyways.”

The announcements crackle on, and everyone gets up for the annual moment of silence for 9/11, before Principal Weatherbee continues, “The pep rally is still being held as scheduled this Friday after school. In light of the events of this weekend, the sheriff is here with a message for our students.”

Kevin sighs under his breath as his father comes on the loudspeaker, sounding as grizzled and pessimistic as ever. Betty figures that’s where Kevin must get his ‘glass half empty’ outlook from. Sheriff Keller’s perfectly polite, but he’s not exactly someone who really looks on the bright side of life. 

“Good morning, everyone. As you’re all aware, the body of Jason Blossom was discovered early Saturday morning. The circumstances of his death are being investigated, and for the time being, I am declaring this a homicide. If anyone- anyone at all- has any relevant information about Jason, I encourage you to come forward sooner, rather than later. We want to keep Riverdale safe for everyone, especially our kids.”

Betty glances around at her classmates, who all look like a combination of bored, confused, and intrigued. Jughead Jones is in the back corner, not so subtly listening to music, and writing furiously in one of his many black notebooks. The dark shadows under his eyes are especially prominent in the harsh fluorescent lighting. 

“Think he knows something?” Kevin stage whispers to her, and she glares at him.

“We’ve known him since preschool, Kev.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “You know his dad runs Southside. They do some fucked up shit down there.”

Betty doesn’t believe that Jughead is a gangbanger at the tender age of fifteen, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he knew something. He’s always… observing everyone. Honestly, she should try to talk him into writing for the paper, even if he probably doesn’t want anything to do with her. Her mom did try to campaign to get the school board to ban him from attending middle school with everyone else after his stint in ‘alternative education’ after the fire thing.

But she doesn’t believe that either. Jughead seems like less of a fire setter, and more of a fire watcher.


	10. Chapter 10

Cheryl sits in the back of her AP Bio class waiting for the onslaught. The majority of the senior class of Riverdale High are like little gnats. Harmless most of the time, but if they swarm you… well, then you’ve got a problem. She’s a Blossom. Flowers attract flies. That’s what Mother always says. She’s trying not to let it get to her, but it’s hard, because Jason is-

She just can’t think about it. If she thinks about it, she’s afraid of what will happen, what she might say or do. When Daddy got the phone call on Saturday morning and told her and Mother, it was all she could do to keep standing. Horror is to be expected, after all. Everyone had assumed it was an accidental drowning, not a shot to the head at point blank. But she can’t grieve twice.

It’s unseemly. And what’s more, it’s suspicious. Cheryl is popular, not well-liked. Jason was well-liked, but never popular. There’s a difference. People are drawn to Cheryl because of her flair for the dramatic, her outbursts, her impassioned rants and cutting remarks, because she is pretty and unstable and liable to blow up for real one day, and no one wants to miss the fireworks, even if they don’t want to get too close.

But she’s also odd, and eccentric, and no matter how nicely she dresses, she’s never going to be able to blend in with the crowd, so to speak. At the first sign of danger, the rest of them will turn on her like a pack of starving dogs. She’s the perfect scapegoat; crazy Cheryl, with her fiery hair and nuclear temper. And the tides are turning, especially with the front page headline of the Register reading BLOSSOM FOUND MURDERED- ALL IN THE FAMILY?

Tina and Ginger close in like two particularly bold horse flies. Cheryl adjusts her high ponytail and greets them with a sardonic smile. They are, on paper, her closest friends, but she’s never told them anything. Not really. They’re friends with her because of her surname, and because Tina was always desperate to get in Jason’s pants and Ginger goes where the winds blow her, having the approximate IQ of a dandelion.

“Oh my god,” Tina says critically, narrowing her eyes at Cheryl. “I can’t believe you’re even in school today, Cher.”

Cheryl sets her jaw in warning. Only one person is allowed to call her Cher, and he’s currently in the morgue. 

“Did you really lie to the cops?” Ginger asks, far too loudly. Several heads swivel around. 

Cheryl’s smirk stretches painfully wide, tugging at the corners of her mouth. The smart thing to do would be to play dumb, but she doesn’t feel like being smart, and it’s this or driving her pen into Tina’s eye socket. “Are you really in this class, Ginger? Did you blow Mr. Pelham, or just stumble in here while looking for the special education wing?”

Ginger recoils in shock. “What’s wrong with you-,”

“He was shot,” Tina sniffs, as if she has any right to be indignant over Jason’s death. “I mean, if you can’t even be honest with us, Cherie-,”

“It’s Cheryl to you, Tiny Tim,” Cheryl hisses, and stands up, black skirt flouncing around her legs, as she shoves her notebook and pen back into her bag. “Have fun with your dissections. Mr. Pelham,” she calls to the front of the class, “I feel sick, I’m going to the nurse.”

Their flustered teacher is clearly torn between negating her blatant lie and not wanting to be known as the man who gives a murder victim’s surviving twin a hard time. “I- well, you need a hall pass, Cheryl-,”

She’s already on her way out, stepping out into the slightly cooler hallway, and she quickly makes her way down two flights of stairs before darting out a side door. She doesn’t usually cut class, but this seems like a worthy enough occasion, and she’s nearly all the way to the bleachers before it hits her again, like a wave, that Jason is dead and he’s never coming back.

She feels like something has been scooped out of her, like her intestines have been laid out on a surgical table and picked clean, and she doubles over and retches for a few moments, in the shadow of the bleachers, but she hasn’t eaten all day and nothing comes up but spittle. Wiping at her mouth, she sinks down onto her knees and digs her fingers into the dewy grass. This doesn’t feel real.

Maybe she’s in an alternate reality. Jason always liked science fiction novels- Dune and Ender’s Game and Slaughterhouse Five. She feels like she’s on another planet right now, one where up is down and down is up and Jason is- he’s not coming back, this isn’t a joke or a game or a stupid plan to get away this is real, and he’s not- he’s not real anymore, he’s gone, and it’s just her.

Cheryl has never been alone, not truly. She always had Jason. She liked to imagine she could feel him with her, even when they were physically apart. She always knew he was there, in the background of her lipstick smeared, wildly lilting life. Watching and waiting, looking out for her. But he’s gone. She hates him. If he had just stayed here with her- if he had chosen her instead, he’d still be here. Things wouldn’t be good, but at least they’d be normal.

At least she wouldn’t have had to lose him twice. 

“Are you okay?”

Cheryl squints up through the morning sunshine at the bleachers above her. Archie Andrews is staring down at her. Cheryl never knows quite what to make of Archie. Surely he can’t be as innocent and good-natured as he acts. No one is that much of a boy scout, and if he has a weakness, it’s probably girls, given how quickly he crumbled with Veronica. It was pathetic, really, although she has very little sympathy for Betty, who will probably count this among her most traumatic life experiences, because she lives in a glass house constructed by her neurotic mother.

“Do I look okay?” she spits, wiping at her eyes. Thank god this mascara is waterproof. At least she wasn’t properly sobbing, just on the verge of tears and flushed and nauseous. She straightens up, brushing at her blouse and skirt, as he stomps down and around the bleachers to join her underneath. 

Cheryl lifts her chin up imperiously, trying to look as though she doesn’t give a damn whether he blabs to the entire school about her breakdown at the football field during third period or not. But Archie just looks sheepish- he’s clearly cutting class as well, his backpack slung over his shoulder, red hair askew. 

Luckily, despite the hair, he looks nothing like Jason. Archie is broad where Jason was slim, and has tanner skin and a thicker neck and broader chest. His hair has more brown in it than Jason’s ever had, and it curls where Jason’s was straight. Besides, he’s wearing his brand new varsity jacket, and Jason disdained football, probably because Daddy was always on him to try out, since he played it in high school.

“No,” he says honestly, then cringes. “Uh, I- I’m really sorry about Jason, Cheryl. That’s… what happened to him is horrible.”

“It’s a good deal less poetic than drowning, yes,” Cheryl snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. At least Archie has the good sense not to ogle her on today of all days, unlike the rest of the male population. Just one more comment from Reggie Mantle and she’s going to attempt vehicular manslaughter in the senior parking lot, which he’s been illegally parking in as a junior anyways.

“Well, if you need anything… um,” Archie babbles, scratching at his neck, “just know that people do care. About Jason and you.”

He almost sounds genuine, which might be touching, except Cheryl doesn’t give a damn how much Archie pities her, poor little Cheryl, brotherless and friendless. “If they care so much,” she says crisply, “than they’ll go to the sheriff with any information about the case, and Jason’s killer will be six feet under by Halloween.”

Not that it matters. She knows who killed Jason, or at least who had the most motive, and if the Coopers have anything to say about it, it’ll never happen. Luckily, the Blossoms have money, and as respectable as the Coopers are, money trumps decency every time. Cheryl learned that from Daddy. 

She adjusts her bag on her shoulder, and pulls out her phone. “I’m going home for the day. As you can see, I’m overcome with grief. I’m giving you my number. Tell Betty to call me after school. I want to apologize for what happened with cheerleading,” she lies to Archie’s oblivious face, and he looks surprised enough to believe her, nodding readily.

Cheryl walks quickly to the parking lot, heels digging into the gravel, and comes to a stop when she reaches the spot that was always her and Jason’s. The Chrysler Imperial gleams red in the September sunshine, and she regards the convertible for a moment before unlocking it and slipping into the driver’s seat. She can still smell Jason’s cologne, and feel the warmth of his body lingering on the seat, if she concentrates hard enough.

She dry heaves for a few moments, and then switches on the radio as she starts the engine with a muted growl.

To her mild surprise, Betty does end up calling, at three o’clock sharp in the afternoon. Cheryl has barricaded herself in her bedroom, as Mother was none too pleased when she arrived home from school at ten in the morning, and is sitting in her window seat, translucent curtains billowing in the breeze on either side of her. 

Her and Jason’s rooms are directly across the hall from one another; Cheryl’s faces outward, towards the winding drive and the rest of town, while Jason’s faces inwards towards the dark of the woods and the river. She’s not allowed to go into Jason’s bedroom, because the police want to search it, likely for drugs. 

But Jason never did any drugs- his only vices were bourbon, Jack and Coke, and occasionally, stolen cigars of Daddy’s, which she and he would smoke in the veranda when their parents were out. Jason never said ‘Cheryl, women don’t smoke cigars, don’t be crude’. He lit hers for her with a silver lighter, while reading his book, long legs propped up on the wicker sofa.

She was most happiest, she thinks, on those cool evenings, when they had the place to themselves and Nana Rose, when they were completely and utterly alone. Sometimes they had a bonfire out back, and listened to music and got absolutely giddy on Mother’s Zinfandel and one time Jason picked her up in his arms and spun around, perilously close to the flames, and Cheryl shrieked with laughter and wished the heat would stay forever in her bones.

Her phone rings, and she immediately answers it. “Hello, Betty.”

Betty sounds strained and deeply discomfited. “Um, hi… Cheryl. Archie said… you wanted to talk to me?”

“That’s right,” Cheryl chirps, curling her legs up underneath her. “I wanted to apologize for being such a vapid bitch to you last week. It was horrendous of me, I know. I’ve just been so out of sorts since this summer.”

She can hear Betty’s skepticism seeping in through the phone line. They both know Cheryl has always been rather horrendous, grieving or not, and that she’s never given a genuine apology in her life. Well, that’s not right. She has, once or twice, with Jason. But that’s different. An apology to your other half is different. It’s just words on the wind with everyone else.

“That’s… I mean, I understand,” Betty says faintly. “I know your family is going through a lot right now. I shouldn’t have screamed at you at tryouts. It was… that wasn’t okay.”

Cheryl doesn’t have the patience to try to decipher if silly little Betty Cooper is lying just as much as she is or not. Frankly, she doesn’t care. “Well, I lost Jason, and you lost Polly,” she sighs. “How is she?”

She can almost picture Betty drawing back in confusion. “I- I don’t know,” she stammers, “I haven’t… I haven’t been to see her in awhile, my mom says- well, I think my mom is going to see her tonight.”

“So she’s still with the Sisters,” Cheryl presses.

“Yes,” Betty says flatly, and then, after a moment. “Cheryl… you didn’t call me to apologize, did you?”

“I can’t be worried about my brother’s ex-girlfriend?” Cheryl asks in mock shock, scowling. “You have to admit, they had a very… tumultuous relationship, Betty. I think you should prepare yourself- we both should- for questions being asked. About say, Polly’s alibi for the fourth of July.”

“Oh my god,” says Betty in disgust. “You can’t be serious, Cheryl. You can’t really think that my SISTER would do anything to Jason-,”

“Well, I’ll try to leave that to the police,” Cheryl retorts swiftly. “And if you know anything, I’d suggest you decide where your loyalties lie very quickly- with justice, or with your dysfunctional little suburban clan, because the truth will out, Betty!”

Betty, of course, hangs up on her, leaving Cheryl to stare at her cell phone in frustration before flinging it onto her bed. Of course Betty isn’t going to side against her sister. Cheryl understands. She would defend Jason unto death. She will. But she’s not going to stand by and let this all be swept under the rug, no matter what Daddy and Mother say about preserving their reputation and good publicity. 

Jason isn’t just a Blossom, he’s her brother, her literal flesh and blood, her companion since conception, and she feels like a limb was brutally hacked off and is now spurting blood, and she’s going to cauterize the wound via whatever means necessary, trial by fire or not. Polly Cooper is going to wish she’d never been born by the time Cheryl’s through with her, because right now, Cheryl wishes it were her in the morgue, and Jason here and whole and safe, not bloated and rotting with river water, a gaping hole in his perfect forehead, eyes sightlessly pleading with her to not let him go.


	11. Chapter 11

Archie doesn’t know what to do, so naturally he goes to Sunnyside. He hasn’t been around the trailer park since freshman year, and only once or twice even then, since Jughead never wanted to hang out there in case his dad showed up… or people showed up looking for his dad. Archie misses Jughead’s old house, the one the Jones lived in until halfway through seventh grade, when Archie’s dad fired Jughead’s and then right before they started high school Mrs. Jones left with Jughead’s sister.

Archie doesn’t get why she wouldn’t take Jughead. At least he had the option of leaving with his mom. Jughead just woke up one day and his mom and little sister were gone. Ran off in the middle of the night. Jughead said she left a note, addressed to him, hidden in his desk drawer where his dad wouldn’t find it. Archie never worked up the nerve to ask Jug what it said. FP Jones has always been perfectly pleasant to Archie, despite the whole ‘your dad fired me’ thing, and Archie has always been warily polite, avoiding eye contact and muttering responses, which is funnily enough the same thing Jughead does when talking to FP.

Right now, he’s hoping that Jughead is home and that FP isn’t, as he pedals slowly through the rusted gates of the park and makes a beeline for the Jones trailer. Distantly, a man is yelling, and there’s the muffled sound of a dog barking and a TV blaring in the trailer directly across from theirs. Archie relaxes somewhat when he realizes FP’s car is gone- everyone knows that FP Jones drives a black 76 Firebird, ‘the same car he’s had since high school’, Dad once commented dryly- and then added, ‘and he’s still picking up 18 year olds in it’.

Archie doesn’t know about that, but it is a nice car, and Jughead said once that FP promised he could have it on his eighteenth birthday but that he didn’t want it because once he turned eighteen he wasn’t taking shit from his dad. Archie also thought it best to probably not ask about that, either. Jughead and FP don’t get along and Jughead is leaving town as soon as he turns eighteen and that’s all he needs to know. It’s been the same story since they were twelve.

He would have texted, but Jughead hasn’t had a cell phone in months, since he dropped the last one in the gutter while getting hassled by some older guys. Instead he raps nervously on the door, shifting from foot to foot until he hears the faint sound of footsteps Finally it creaks open to reveal a drowsy looking Jughead, freshly lit blunt in hand. He looks Archie up and down for a moment, and then steps inside to let him in.

“I wanted to say sorry,” Archie says, flushing bright red- he feels like he’s been apologizing all day- first to Betty, then to Veronica via guilty looks in gym while she tried in vain to talk to Betty, then to Cheryl because her brother is dead and it’s maybe his fault, and now to Jughead, for being completely wasted the last time he saw- and the time before that they were pretty close to throwing punches, which was also Archie’s fault. “For the bullshit I put you through on Friday.”

“Saturday,” Jughead corrects hoarsely. He’s wearing a pair of faded sweatpants and a holey tee shirt, his hair a mess. “Yeah. Lot of bullshit,” he takes a hit, “even before the whole dead body thing.”

Archie has never really liked the smell of weed, and has only done it a couple times at parties. Drugs seem like too much of a risk, with football and everything. He’d rather just have a beer. Jughead rolls his eyes at the look on his face, and offers it to him. “No? Maybe it’d help you calm down. Fuck,” he coughs, sinking onto the pull-out couch in the tiny, cramped living room of the trailer. “Dude, what the fuck? Your dad’ll kick your ass if he finds out you were over here.”

He’s kind of right. Dad has never tried to stop Archie from hanging out with Jughead, but he doesn’t want him over at Sunnyside, or in Southside at all, really. Archie can’t really blame him. The cops are at the park more often than not, and if he had a kid, he wouldn’t want them hanging around Serpent territory either. But no one has ever given him any trouble while he’s there, since he’s always with Jughead, and no one’s stupid enough to mess with FP’s boy.

“My dad’s not gonna know, is he?” Archie sits down on the worn out armchair by the boxy TV in the corner. Jughead regards him through red-rimmed eyes, slumped back, one hand massaging his face. “I’m kind of freaking out, man,” Archie admits after a moment, still not sure if he should be telling Jughead any of this, but who else can he talk to? Betty’s furious with him, Dad can’t know, can’t ever know, and Ms. Grundy… well, he tried to talk to her, but she freaked out when he said he thought they should report what they heard on the 4th.

“Archie,” she’d told him, her small hands on his shoulders, long fingers digging into his tee shirt- she’s got such beautiful hands, pale and slender and perfect, uncracked nails- “you can’t do this. Think about the bigger picture, honey.” He likes when she calls him honey. It sounds real and warm and smooth, coming out of her mouth, like they’re a real couple. He still feels awkward about calling her Geraldine. Mostly he- well mostly he didn’t say much, when they were… together.

“I am,” he’d insisted, wanting to jerk away and pull her close to him at the same time, “but Jason- Jason was murdered, and what if his killer is still out there? We can’t just let them get away with this.”

“The police,” she’d reminded him sharply, “aren’t going to have much more to go off from what you tell them-,”

“They’d know what time the gunshot was,” he’d snapped. “A time of death-,”

Ms. Grundy had looked at him like he was a little kid, and he hated that. “We have no way of knowing that it was the shot that killed Jason.”

“You’re just trying to look out for yourself,” he’d muttered then, glancing away in resentment and lingering shame, until she gave a sudden hiccuping noise like she might cry, and pulled his hand up between her breasts, where he could feel the warmth of her skin under her blouse and her heartbeat pulsing steadily.

“I’m looking out for both of us,” she’d said sadly, and so earnestly, green eyes wide. “Archie, I love you. You have to believe that what I feel- that what we have here, it’s real. It’s worth keeping safe, isn’t it?”

So he’d caved. Obviously. She hadn’t been lying- she couldn’t have been lying, not when she looked at him like that. She loved him. Someone loved him, and thought he was handsome, and smart, and talented, and that feeling alone was a high all of its own. It made him feel like he could do anything, be anything. He hadn’t felt that way since he was a tiny little kid, convinced he could be whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Before reality set in.

“What?” Jughead asks now, leaning his head back to stare at the grimy ceiling. “Don’t tell me,” he snorted, “that Betty fucked you up that much. She’ll get over it.”

“I’m not freaking out about Betty, I’m-,” Archie hesitates, and then plunges onwards. Jughead and him have been friends since the third grade. The only person he’s closer to is Betty. “I’m freaking out about Jason.”

Jughead laughs for a moment, and then stares at him blearily. “Since when do you… have anything to do with Jason Blossom,” he coughs. “Are you sure you don’t want a hit? You look kinda pale.”

Archie waves a hand irritably at him. “Jesus, no. Listen, I- look, I know you’re still pissed about how I ditched you this summer-,”

“Ditched me all summer,” Jughead clarifies moodily. “Whatever. I get it. You finally hit puberty and the gates of heaven opened. Who am I to judge.”

Archie used to think Jughead might be gay, since he’s never expressed interest in any girl at all, but now he just thinks Jughead… well, maybe he’s just a late bloomer. Besides, as much as Archie hates to admit it, because Jughead is his friend, girls aren’t exactly lining up for him. Not that Jughead’s ugly or something- he’s not, he might not have the same sly grin and smooth voice as his dad but he’s tall and has nice hair and aren’t girls supposed to like that sort of thing? 

Just that he’s kind of seen as… damaged goods. And he’s not really all that popular at school. Mostly because of assholes like Reggie who pick on him, but also because- well, Jug’s quiet, but he never hesitates to say exactly what he thinks, and his disdain of most things other high schoolers enjoy, like football and dances and Instagram and group chats and Adidas, is pretty well known. He can be kind of a pretentious hipster, although Archie not sure it counts if your jeans are genuinely ripped up and worn out.

“I didn’t just ditch you for some girl,” he blurts out. “I mean- I did, but- it’s- she’s not like, a normal girl…,” he trails off, unsure of how to word this. Jughead might be stoned, but he’s not that out of it. He’ll put two and two together soon enough. 

“What?” Jughead asks. “Some Greendale girl? Don’t tell me,” he groans suddenly, “that you’re fucking a Serpent chick. Okay? They’re fucking crazy. Trust me-”

“I was with Ms. Grundy all summer,” Archie practically shouts over him, and they both immediately go quiet.

“Ms. Grundy like… the music teacher?” Jughead says after a moment, brow wrinkled. “As in… the high school music teacher, your tutor, adult woman Ms. Grundy?”

Archie nods jerkily.

Jughead stares at him with an incredulous look on his pale face, and then takes another drag. “What does that… Jason…” Then he stops. “You and her saw Jason, didn’t you?”

“No,” Archie says hastily, “we didn’t SEE anything, but we heard a gunshot… around the time he ‘drowned’, I guess. I don’t know. We didn’t know what to do, so we just got out of there, and then we found out he was missing…”

“Jesus Christ,” Jughead rasps. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re sleeping with a teacher and you maybe witnessed a murder?” He rolls over on the couch and lets out a muffled groan into one of the pillows. 

“I think we should tell someone,” Archie admits, “but she doesn’t.”

Jughead lifts his head from the pillow. “Yeah, no shit, she doesn’t, you goddamn idiot. She doesn’t want to lose her job for fucking a fifteen year old- and that’s like, statutory rape.”

Archie frowns. “It’s not… it’s not like that.”

Jughead arches a dark eyebrow. “So you didn’t have sex?”

He bites his lip. “I mean- I started it-,”

Jughead nearly drops the blunt onto the cheap carpeting with the gesture he makes. “Dude, she’s like, thirty years old. I’m pretty sure who started it. How did you even… run into her?”

Archie shrugs helplessly. “After working with my dad all day. I was um… walking home and she offered me a ride and then we just… I mean, we were just hanging out at first. We didn’t do anything. I was just… I was just kinda depressed this summer, and she talked about how she used to be really depressed too, when she didn’t get into Juilliard when she was our age-,” He feels suddenly defensive at the skepticism Jughead is emanating. This is a mistake. At least Betty would be more sympathetic. “I made the first move, though. And she’s not that old, Jug! She only turned twenty six in July.”

“What twenty six year old hangs out with their students?” Jughead demands. “Especially with a high schooler? That’s so fucking weird, dude. You know it is. I mean, what the fuck? If you-,” he coughs, “if you were depressed, we could have hung out…”

Great. Jughead’s just pissed because Archie turned to Geraldine instead of him. He scowls. “Look, it’s not like- it’s not like she kidnapped me or threatened me or anything. I like her. I really, really like her, and she likes me.”

“Yeah,” says Jughead, “because she’s a fucking pervert who gets off on ‘seducing’ dumbass kids.”

“I’m not a dumbass,” Archie snaps, standing up, “and she’s not a pervert. Lots of couples are far apart in age. Look at your parents, your mom’s way younger-,” he stops suddenly, because Jughead has gone very tense and silent. 

Finally, Jughead says, through gritted teeth, “My mom was eighteen when my dad knocked her up, not fifteen. There’s a fucking difference. She knew what she was getting into, with him. You don’t. What if you get her pregnant? Your dad’ll fucking kill you, and your mom’ll fly back from Chicago to throw every law in the book at her-,”

“My parents aren’t going to find out,” Archie retorts angrily, “and she’s not- we were really safe, all summer, and we haven’t… we haven’t even done anything since Jason…”

Jughead shakes his head. “You gotta tell someone.” He glances up at Archie, eyes focused despite the redness. “Or I will, dude.”

“Don’t,” Archie feels suddenly nauseous, and the smell of the weed isn’t helping, “don’t say anything- Jughead, I swear to God, you can’t-”

“So you’re okay with Jason’s killer never being caught if it means Grundy and you can still play hot for teacher?” Jughead demands, standing up himself. He’s still taller than Archie, but Archie’s pretty sure he’s a lot stronger, and it won’t be much of a fight, if it comes to it. Jughead’s almost wounded tone hurts the most. “What the fuck happened to you, Archie? I don’t- you’re different. Really different. The Archie I know always…,” he hesitates, “he’s always tried to do the right thing, even if it sucked.”

“Well,” Archie says nastily, feeling like he’s just been sucker punched, “maybe you never really knew me, Jug-,”

An engine is roaring up into the trailer park. Jughead freezes and then turns to peer out the stained window as the car pulls up out outside. “Fuck,” he moans under his breath. “It’s my dad.”

Archie grabs his backpack. “I should- I gotta go.”

Jughead doesn’t even look at him, jerking his head toward the door as he hurriedly stubs out his blunt on the windowsill. “Then fucking go.” His voice is flat and distant. The engine outside cuts off, and Archie hears the jingle of keys as he opens the door and hurries down the front steps, finding himself face to face with FP Jones.

FP is a tall, broad-shouldered man who looks years younger than his forty something years- he’s the same age as Archie’s dad; they used to be best friends back in high school. Unlike Archie’s dad, his dark hair hasn’t started to recede yet, and his face is slightly less worn. When he grins disarmingly, sometimes Archie thinks he can see the shadow of a handsome teenage boy in a leather jacket. 

He smells like whiskey and cigarettes and a faint hint of women’s perfume, short and sweet. “Hey Arch,” he says casually, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, and then smirks. “You and Jug hotboxing in there or what? Better take a shower before your old man gets home.”

Archie smiles out of pure nerves and reflex. “Uh- yeah,” he stammers. “Um, nice to… nice to see you, Mr. Jones, I gotta… I gotta get home. Lots of homework.”

“Right, homework,” FP nods, looking slightly bemused. “Yeah. Can’t say I ever did much of that shit. But you’re a smart kid- you and Jug both. Damn, wish I had some of that kid’s brains.”

You can’t help but feel, talking to FP, like some of the ‘I’m just a dumb high school dropout’ schtick is an act. Archie always has. There’s a certain sharpness in Jughead’s father’s eyes, something thin and striking and potentially lethal. He might not be that educated, but the man clearly isn’t an idiot. Most gang leaders probably aren’t.

Archie chuckles anxiously and hops on his bike, ducking his head as FP says, “You be safe now, little man. Heard there’s some bad shit going on in Northside.” His tone is less concerned and more knowing than it should be. As Archie quickly pedals away, gravel crunching underneath the wheels of his bike, he hears FP head into the trailer, and the door slam shut behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

Jughead is completely, soaking wet by the time he makes it into school. The storm broke just as he made it onto campus, and the bad weather isn’t supposed to have let up much by tomorrow, either. Half the town is hoping the memorial pep rally gets rained out, and the other half is hoping it won’t. 

Jughead can’t say he belongs to either side. It’s just an excuse for everyone to pretend they care more about a dead kid than football. And it’s not like Jason Blossom is the first dead boy to be found down by the river. Only suicides and overdoses don’t tend to make front page news in the Register, especially when they’re kids from Southside. 

But he could do without this rain. He yanks off his sodden beanie as he tramps up the front steps to school, late but just in time for his free period. The halls seem unusually quiet and his squeaky sneakers echo as he sidles into sophomore-junior study hall in the library, during which very little homework is ever done and much bullshit is lapped up by his peers.

His backpack is dripping as he takes a seat at one of the back tables, steadfastly ignoring the presence of Archie and some of his asshole friends from the football team a few feet away. Mrs. Coyne, the librarian, is supposed to be supervising study hall, but as usual, is nowhere to be found, probably chatting away in the break room a few doors down. 

Jughead reluctantly removes his wet denim jacket as well, leaving him shifting uncomfortably in a damp hoodie and cold jeans. He rummages through his backpack for his notebook and a pen, and finds one, capless, but it doesn’t work. He flips to the back of his notebook and scribbles furiously. Still no ink.

“Working on your manifesto, Juggie?” Reggie asks in an obnoxiously loud voice, ringing out across the chatter of the other students.

Jughead ignores him. Reggie’s not stupid enough to start shit- at least not anything physical- in the library, so his best bet is to gray rock the junior until he gets bored of harassing him. Him and Reggie have never gotten along. Reggie was always a spoiled little brat with no common sense and now he’s a roided out douchebag who probably still reads on a fifth grade level.

“We were just talking about prime suspects,” Reggie continues, clearly disappointed at not having provoked a reaction. Archie is slumped in his seat, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, and even Moose, who’s usually Reggie’s willing stooge, looks more reserved than usual, continually glancing across the room… at Kevin, who is sitting with Betty by the front desk.

“Pretty sure you’re top of the list, Jug,” Reggie continues jovially, while Jughead looks for another pen or pencil in his bag. “I mean, you gotta admit man, you hit all the boxes. Some scrawny little virginal fag who jerks off to pictures of Jeffrey Dahmer- what’d you do after you shot up Jason, Jones? You finally get to fuck him like you always wanted?”

“Ever heard of something called projection?” Jughead snaps, more pissed that he can’t find a writing utensil than by Reggie’s blatant homophobia, which is probably a defense mechanism more than anything else. “Look it up, Reg. Along with necrophilia. Maybe you can use them to practice your spelling.”

Reggie falls momentarily silent, seething, and then picks up an empty can of soda and hurls it at Jughead’s face. Jughead has fifteen, nearly sixteen years of ducking on impulse on his side, however, and the can misses him by a mile. “See how much of a fucking smartass you are during gym, you little pussy-,” Reggie rants, but is cut off by Archie’s low interruption.

“Dude, just leave him alone.” He’s unusually pale and clearly hasn’t slept well, and Jughead feels a pinprick of pity. But Archie brought this shit upon himself. Yeah, he’s probably being manipulated and gaslit by that freak Grundy left and right, but he still has some sort of moral compass. No sex offender is worth lying to the cops about a murder victim.

“What’s up with you, Archie?” Reggie demands, offended. “I thought you and Juggie were done sucking each other off constantly-,”

“Reg, just stop,” Moose interjects, a first for him. Maybe he’s not as much of a moron as Jughead thought. “You’re always on his ass about something. It’s getting old.”

Reggie looks shocked about being told off by two underclassmen, and sinks into a scowling stupor, outnumbered for the moment without the rest of the football team there to back him up. Chuck Clayton would probably be all over this shit, Jughead thinks critically, but then again, Chuck’s even worse than Reggie, mostly because Reggie at least doesn’t pretend to not be a raging hormonal asshole.

There’s the sound of quiet footsteps and Jughead glances up as Betty Cooper nervously skirts around the table of jocks, before setting a pink pencil down in front of Jughead. It says YOU GO GIRL in embellished font on the side. “Um, here,” she mutters, meeting his eyes for a half second. 

Betty’s always been nice to him, albeit in a wary, ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you’ sort of way. He’s never been jealous of her and Archie’s friendship at least, since Archie always came to him for the guy shit. But he dreaded the day they finally got together, since he doubts Betty would want her boyfriend hanging around with a Jones left and right.

“Thanks,” Jughead says, wondering why she came all the way over here to give him a pencil. Maybe she’s trying to make Archie jealous? Or something? 

“Don’t let them get to you,” she adds after a moment, in a hushed voice, and Reggie looks over at them as she steps away, hands in the pockets of her cardigan.

“Whoa Andrews,” he sneers, “Betty’s already hopped off your dick and onto Jones’. Guess you missed your shot.”

Betty turns pink, from her forehead down to her neck. Jughead is unreasonably irritated; he and Betty aren’t great pals or anything, and probably never will be, but she’s a nice girl, and not the kind you put in air quotes. She doesn’t deserve to be the target of Reggie’s misogynistic fodder. He opens his mouth to say something, as Betty gives a little angry shake of her ponytail and stalks back to her seat, but Archie stands up, chair scraping back.

“Don’t talk about her like that again, Reggie.” His voice is low, serious.

Moose sighs under his breath a bit.

Reggie snorts. “Why not? It’s not like you’re tapping that flat ass. Everyone knows you’re plowing Lodge, so as far as I can tell, Betty B-Cup’s up for grabs-,”

Jughead stands up himself at that, although to do what, he doesn’t know, knuckles white around Betty’s stupid pink pencil. But Archie has already cleared the length of the table, tackling Reggie to the floor, and the library erupts into shouts of laughter and wild cheers as the two tussle in between the shelves. Moose makes a half hearted attempt to pull Archie off Reggie, just as Mrs. Coyne comes rushing back into the library.

“Boys!” she screams, and when they make no signs of stopping, runs back out to get a male teacher. 

Jughead looks down the length of the room. Kevin is unabashedly recording the entire thing on his phone, and Betty has her hands clasped over her mouth in shock. He looks back down at Archie and Reggie. Reggie is now on top, and delivers a powerful punch to Archie’s face that’s definitely going to leave a black eye. 

Jughead resists the urge to grab his shit and get the hell out, but even if he deserves the black eye and more, Archie Andrews is still his best friend, and Reggie Mantle is still a fucking prick. He snatches an encyclopedia off the nearest shelf and brings it crashing down on Reggie’s back just as Mrs. Coyne returns with an infuriated Principal Weatherbee.

“JONES!”

Weatherbee lets him off relatively easy (only after Archie’s repeated insistence that he started the fight, not Jughead or even Reggie, and that Jughead only got involved in his defense) with lunch detention for all of the next week. He’s surprised he’s not banned from the pep rally tomorrow night, but that’s for the best, since he was planning to go, if only to help with his book. 

He can’t exactly write about the tragic and mysterious death of Jason Blossom if he doesn’t have as much information as possible. Besides, maybe Cheryl will make a scene. She always seems to find a way. In the meantime, when the last bell rings he has a pencil to return. Jughead finds Betty at her locker, looking as grim as she has all week while she shovels textbooks into her backpack.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly, holding out the pencil for way too long until she notices him and it, and takes it. “Thanks for… lending it to me.”

“Oh, I mean, you could keep it- um, you didn’t have to give it back,” Betty smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks him up and down, zipping her backpack shut. It has a Wonder Woman keychain on it. He wonders if she reads comics much. He used to be obsessed with Batman when he was little. It probably had something to do with the tragic backstory. And the lack of parents. And the corrupt city. And all the gore.

“Well,” he adjusts his beanie, which is still sort of wet and weird smelling. “I did. So. And uh… what Reggie said in the library… he’s just a shithead attention whore. You know that, right?”

Betty looked close to tears when Weatherbee escorted them all out, and he’s not sure if Reggie’s bullshit really got to her or if she was upset for some other reason. He knows she and Archie are still on the outs, and supposedly she and Veronica Lodge are on thin ice as well. Suffice to say she doesn’t seem to be having the best week.

“Yes,” she says quickly, nodding too much. “Ob-obviously. I just- I just wish Archie hadn’t-,” she scowls suddenly, and her green eyes dart away. She shoulders her backpack, umbrella at the ready. There’s a distant rumble of thunder outside, as the buses start to pull away. “Whatever. Erm, see you at the pep rally, Jughead.”

“Yeah,” he gives a little stilted nod of his own as she marches off like a soldier in a polka dot raincoat, blonde ponytail bobbing behind her. Betty Cooper is a weird girl, if you think about it. She really is. 

He has zero desire to walk home, or to the drive-in, in this weather, and get wet all over again, so it looks like he’s waiting out the storm here. He sits down by the stairs leading to the gym, stomach growling, and debates spending the last of his cash on something from the vending machine. But the last time he tried that, it ate his goddamn dollar and wouldn’t spit it back out.

There’s a crinkling sound from around the corner, and he frowns just in time to see Archie, bearing a nasty bruise that will be plum colored by tomorrow, and a bag of chips in his hands, which he tosses to Jughead. Jughead doesn’t say anything, just rips it open and starts eating, and then after a moment, “You know I like the blue Doritos better, right?”

“Dude, shut the hell up,” Archie says, but grins a little anyways, and sits down on the stairs next to him. “That’s for trying to save me from Reggie’s fists of fury.”

“Trying to save you?” Jughead scoffs through a mouthful of chips. “I was gonna knock him out if Weatherbee hadn’t showed up.”

Archie laughs, but then says, and Jughead knows he means it from the look in his brown eyes, “You didn’t have to have my back like that, but you did. Especially not after that shit I said on Monday. Which… I didn’t mean. I’m sorry, Jug.”

Jughead chews thoughtfully, and with a barely restrained smirk says, “If you were really sorry you’d go buy me a snapple.”

“Dude, really?” Archie snickers, punching him on the shoulder, and then adds, “And I’m gonna tell the sheriff. This weekend, I promise. You were right. About doing the right thing.”

“I usually am,” Jughead retorts, but nudges Archie with a skinny elbow. “But… I know you didn’t mean it. So I guess we’re… cool. Or… on our way to being cool.”

Archie breaks into a relieved smile. “Good. I’ve kind of missed your smartass commentary.” He glances towards the window at the stairwell, where the downpour has lightened to more of a drizzle. “And I think the rain’s lightened up.”

“Good,” says Jughead, getting to his feet with a grunt. “You can chaperone my scrawny, necrophiliac self all the way to Pop’s. Because I got this hunch my smartass commentary kind of translated to ‘kick my fucking teeth in’ in whatever language Reggie speaks.”

Archie claps him on the back. “I have to agree with you there, Jug.”


	13. Chapter 13

Veronica has never been a ‘hip hip hooray, go team!’ sort of person. She went to an all girls school in the city, first of all, and while she was always there for her cheer events, it wasn’t like they had a football team for everyone to rally around. She’s never been to a Friday night pep rally before, and she’s not even sure why she’s here, aside from the fact that everywhere else is closed because apparently the entire town turns out for these things.

It’s a miserable, chilly September night, drizzling on and off, and she has tentative plans to sit with Betty and Kevin but is debating just finding somewhere in the stands to perch by herself. Despite what Betty says, they both know she’s very much Not Over what happened last week, and it’s impossible to apologize to someone who won’t admit that they furious with you.

And it isn’t even that Betty’s been shooting her dirty looks or talking about her behind her back, which Veronica had kind of been expecting. It’s probably what she would have done, had Betty hooked up with a guy she was super, obsessively into. Instead Betty just treats her with a measured, distant surface level of politeness, making up convenient reasons as to why she can’t interact with her.

Betty Cooper has class, Veronica will give her that. She’s definitely not the type to fight dirty, even when she’s seething. And at least she seems to be treating Archie pretty similarly, so Veronica can’t really cry ‘sexism!’. If anything, he’s probably more distraught about it, since he and Betty have apparently known each other since birth, basically, whereas Veronica hasn’t ven known her a month.

And yes, she should just get over it. If Betty doesn’t want to be her friend, that’s her right. Veronica has never been a Stage 5 clinger or someone who needs a ‘bestie’. She’s perfectly content to rely only on herself; trusting other people usually doesn’t work out for her, she’s learned. It’s just… Betty was so different from the girls she used to be friends so. So open and… just very vulnerable.

Veronica had just found it refreshing, was all, to not have to put on an act or feign indifference or make petty comments like she’d always had to before. Well, not ‘had’ to. No one was making her act like a total bitch. That’s on her. She’s really just upset with herself, for all her talk of being a strong, independent, take no shit girl, to bowing to the social pecking order over and over again. Even if she was at the top of it.

She can’t care what people think of her anymore. Or, she shouldn’t. If she never really makes any close friends here, well, that’s fine. She has her doubts that she’ll be finishing out her high school years here. It’d be just like Daddy to be out in a year, and then they’ll be back to New York. Maybe she can talk them into shipping her off to boarding school until college. It’ll be just like Catcher in the Rye.

There’s the crackle of the sound system and the mayor has taken the makeshift stage, so she hurriedly finds a seat beside Ethel Muggs, who looks shocked Veronica’s deigned to sit next to her. Veronica flashes her a swift smile as Mayor McCoy takes the microphone from Coach Clayton. Josie McCoy’s mother is a slender, well-dressed woman who looks like an older version of her daughter, down to the same prize-winning smile. 

“Thank you all for coming out today,” she says, gesturing up to the dark sky overhead. “Despite the bad weather! But a little rain and wind has never scared off the Riverdale Bulldogs before, and I’m sure it won’t now!”

The crowd of parents, siblings, and retirees chuckle good-naturedly. God, small towns are so creepy. Mayor McCoy continues, the wind blowing against her maroon coat. “Our town has always been defined by our ability to come together when the community needs it most. Tonight is no exception. And while we mourn the passing of Jason Blossom, one of our brightest stars, we also celebrate our devotion and loyalty to one another and, of course, our youth. Now, without further ado, I give you Riverdale High’s very own Josie and the Pussycats!”

Veronica watches as Josie, Melody, and Valerie take to the stage, decked out in matching black tops and skirts, cat ears on. Their little gimmick would get them laughed out of any venue in the city, but the townspeople seem enthralled with them, and Veronica has to admit they have talent, although most of their work seems to be covers of older songs.

True to form, they launch into a reworking of Candy Girl while the Vixens trot out in front of them, Cheryl leading the pack. Veronica watches with mild disdain as they dance and sway; they’re decent, and Cheryl’s got a good sense of rhythm, she’ll give her that, but they’re certainly never bringing home any state championships, that’s for sure. She could be out there, if she wanted to, but even if she and Betty aren’t friends, she stands by what she said.

When the song ends, the Vixens step back into a tight line, waving their pom poms energetically as the Bulldogs take the field. Veronica catches a glimpse of red hair, and recognizes Archie among the varsity teammates. He probably still has that black eye he got from Reggie the other day. She sort of wishes she’d been there to witness it, if only because she heard what Reggie said, and she’d like nothing more than to have had the chance to sink one of her high heels into his thick head. 

She knows this isn’t the city, and the ideas surrounding teenagers having sex are probably… a bit more conservative, but honestly, it’s 2017. She’s had about enough of people speculating on who she has or hasn’t slept with, and she refuses to act embarrassed or ashamed of what happened with Archie.

It was probably one of the most chaste Seven Minutes in Heaven ever, and even if it hadn’t been, she still wouldn’t regret it. She doesn’t like Archie like that- or, she liked him enough when she was kissing him, but she’s really not looking for a boyfriend right now. The last thing she needs to deal with is a burgeoning relationship on top of everything else. Besides, Archie seems like the type to get very attached… very quickly.

Veronica claps and cheers along with everyone else out of good will as the game begins, but she can think of a long list of things she’d rather be doing than watch Riverdale crush Greendale. They aren’t too creative about the town names upstate, are they? Maybe she should get a ride over to Pop’s. Mom’s gotten a job waitressing there. It’d be hysterical, if it wasn’t so sad. Mom’s never worked a day in her life, and now she’s waiting tables alongside high schoolers and college dropouts. 

But she has no one to blame but herself, Veronica thinks critically. Mom should have left Daddy ages ago. Then maybe she wouldn’t be living her life in a state of constant bitter mortification. But it’s all a big joke anyways, because that will never happen. Still, Veronica likes Mom a lot better when her father isn’t around. It feels more like Mom is on her side; the Lodge women, toughing it out in suburbia.

Of course, Mom claims she always wants what’s best for Veronica, but that’s bullshit. She wants what’s best for herself, and if that happens to be best for Veronica as well, great. If not, oh well. Hermione Lodge looks out for number one, first and foremost, no matter how sweet or loving she can be, and Veronica has to keep reminding herself of that. Just because Daddy’s gone doesn’t mean Mom is suddenly a saint.

She’s almost entirely zoned out when a flash of movement catches her eye, and she cranes her neck to see Cheryl Blossom take off, breaking away from the cheerleaders on the sidelines, running back towards the school. Fortunately for her, the majority of the crowd is too distracted by the game to notice, but the Vixens seem to dart about frantically for a few moments before a group decision to let her be is made, since no one goes after her.

Veronica has no idea what set Cheryl off, but what distant glance she got at her expression tells her that something is seriously wrong, since Cheryl looked tearful. And yes, she completely fucking hates Cheryl and everything she stands for, but it’s a dark, cold night and she probably shouldn’t be running off into the dark in a skimpy cheerleader’s outfit. 

Where are her parents, anyways? 

Veronica makes up her mind and stands up, scooting out of the row, and when Ethel asks her worriedly where she’s going lies and says the bathroom. She hurries down the steps to the ground, almost tripping from the combination of her ankle boots and the wetness, and makes eye contact with Betty, who’s sitting in the very first row.

But she says nothing, and hurries off before Betty can ask where she’s going as well. Good luck explaining that one; ‘no, I’m not friends with Cheryl now because I’m out to ruin your life, Betty, I’m just making sure she doesn’t get murdered or catch pneumonia because I’m not a total heartless monster! Contrary to popular opinion!’

Cheryl isn’t hard to track down, although Veronica is winded by the time she’s in the school parking lot. She just follows the sound of hysterical sobbing, because that’s what Cheryl’s doing: sitting on the steps, sobbing, hysterically, face red and puffy, lipstick and mascara smeared, entire frame shaking with the force of her sobs. 

She looks terrible, and she clearly doesn’t care, she’s so distraught, and Veronica’s heartstrings, sparse as they might be, are unwillingly tugged. She wants Cheryl to get her ass handed to her, sure, but she’d never wish the death of a family member on someone, especially not a sibling- a twin. 

Veronica doesn’t know what it’s like to have a sibling; Mom and Daddy have always made it clear that they were one-and-done, although she suspects Daddy still would have rathered a son to carry on the family name. But she does know what it’s like to feel hopeless and alone, so she sits down by, but not right beside, Cheryl, ignoring the cold and dampness seeping through her black jeans.

“Did something happen out there?” she asks after a moment, anticipating at least a little lashing out. She knows Cheryl views her as a threat.

But for once the red-haired girl doesn’t have any biting retorts or scathing speech to make. She just shakes her head mutely, hair falling in front of her face. She whispers something, but Veronica can’t make it out. Suddenly Veronica feels as though this was a terrible idea. She’s never really been in a comforting sort of role before. Even Betty would probably do a better job than her, and Betty likely wants to throttle Cheryl.

“Is it… your brother?” Veronica presses.

Cheryl nods, and then brushes her hair out of her face to look at Veronica. “He’s not coming back,” she says, so brokenly that Veronica feels vaguely disgusted, like she’s just witnessed a gory accident and ought to look away out of respect. Who knows what brought all this out, but Cheryl is clearly traumatized by the revelation that her brother’s death wasn’t an accident at all.

“I know he isn’t,” Veronica says, “but he’d want you to look out for yourself, wouldn’t he? Isn’t there… isn’t there someone you can talk to?”

“I can’t,” Cheryl gasps, as if in pain, and rubs at her swollen eyes. “I can’t, I can’t… he promised he wouldn’t leave me forever,” she sniffs. “But now he’s really gone, he’s not coming back, and I don’t… I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice cracks painfully.

Veronica extends a tentative hand and puts it on Cheryl’s shoulder. To her relief, the older girl doesn’t jerk away. “I know it… it seems hard right now, but you’re going to get through this,” she says in a low, determined tone. “You’re… you’re a strong person, Cheryl, and this isn’t going to be the end of everything. Things will get better.”

“Someone shot him,” Cheryl whimpers, and Veronica feels a lump in her throat herself, despite having never met Jason. It is horrible. It really is, and even if Cheryl’s a shitty person who says and does nasty, spiteful things, that doesn’t mean she deserves to be the surviving sister of a murder victim. 

“They’ll find whoever did it,” she promises Cheryl. “They will. He’s going to get justice.” Of course she doesn’t know that, no one knows that, but she doesn’t know what else to say, or do, so she just sits there, shivering a bit, and sort of rubs Cheryl’s shoulder until her sobs subside and she wipes at her face.

Veronica’s not sure how long they’ve been out there, but there’s the sound of a car approaching and a black Rolls Royce pulls up in front of them, headlights cutting a blinding path through the encroaching fog. The passenger side windows rolls down, and Veronica tenses.

“Cheryl,” a severe, redheaded woman says, lips pursed. “Get in the car, darling. You’ll catch your death out in this weather.”

Veronica looks past her to the man who must be Cheryl’s father at the wheel; his expression is not one of paternal concern but thunderous anger. She feels well… not pitying but almost empathetic for Cheryl, who slowly gets up and walks over to the car, completely mute. Neither Blossom says a word to Veronica, who stands up herself, brushing at her jeans, and the car roars away as soon as Cheryl’s inside.

That leaves Veronica alone, again, but as she walks out into the parking lot, pulling out her phone, she hears footsteps and looks up in surprise to see Betty half-walking, half-running over to her, hands in her windbreaker pockets. They both look at each other for a moment, and then Betty says, almost sheepishly, “I saw you and Cheryl. That was… really good of you. To go after her like that.”

Veronica flushes a little, to her annoyance. “I… well, I thought someone should. No one should cry alone on a Friday night, right?” Then she winces. That’s probably exactly what Betty was doing, this time last week. 

But Betty, to her credit, doesn’t blanche or scowl. Instead she… actually smiles at Veronica, and it seems genuine once again. “Sorry I was so… bitchy to you all week. It was pretty babyish of me,” she admits, glancing down at her wet sneakers. 

“No,” Veronica is quick to assure her, “you had every right to be mad. You still do. That… I deserved that and more,” she sighs. It’s starting to rain now, albeit very lightly. It’s almost refreshing, if cold.

“Um,” Betty bites her lip. “I- well- anyways, want to start over?” she blurts out. “For real this time? We could… go to Pop’s?” She hesitates. “I told Archie I’d meet him there. Just to… hang out like normal. I think Jughead’s coming too.”

Veronica frowns. “Jughead as in Jughead Jones? His mysterious loner friend?”

“He’s actually pretty nice,” Betty shrugs, and scuffs at the gravel with the toe of her shoe. “I mean, you don’t have to come, if you’d rather not. No hard feelings, I swear.”

Veronica exhales and squares her shoulders. “You know what? I want to come. Let’s do this. I haven’t…,” she smiles dryly, “I haven’t hung out with anyone in ages.”

Betty grins, flipping up the hood of her jacket, and they set off into the dark together, and Veronica lets herself start to hope again, just a little.


	14. Chapter 14

Betty is glad she, Veronica, Archie, and Jughead had the one brief reprieve Friday night at Pop’s, where all mention of Jason, Cheryl, the murder case, and everything else was avoided. Because the weekend brings a firestorm. On Saturday morning the results of Jason’s autopsy are released with great fanfare. Betty get an insider’s report, of course, because her parents run the paper breaking the story.

His time of death is put at around July 11th, an entire week after he went missing. He was shot point blank in the head, his body was stored for some time, and them dumped in the river. There are rumors they found ligature marks on him, like he was tied up. They’re still running tests to see if he was drugged or on anything. Apparently he was badly beaten beforehand; the report claims he had several broken fingers and shattered ribs.

All that is horrifying enough, and then comes news that Cheryl Blossom has gone to the sheriff’s office herself, Saturday evening, and is being held for questioning. Mom is convinced she’s confessed to it, and so is half the town, from the rumors flying around. Betty is less than convinced, and still feels badly about Cheryl’s breakdown the night before. 

“Why would she kill her own brother?” she insists over dinner; rushed take-out, because Mom and Dad have to be back at the office soon and there’s no time to cook, as much as Dad’s complaining about it. 

“They’re not normal people, honey,” says Dad easily, as if that’s the only answer she should need- the Blossoms are freaks who murder their own family from time to time, and that’s that.

“Jealousy,” Mom sniffs, spooning more rice onto Betty’s plate, although she didn’t ask for any. “That girl has a revolting fixation on her own brother- that was obvious enough even when he was alive, and after her hysterics the other day during the pep rally? She couldn’t stand the thought of him being with another woman, so she killed him. Or paid off someone else to do it.” She gestures with the spoon pointedly. “Probably a Serpent or two.”

“That’s crazy,” huffs Betty. “Cheryl’s weird and melodramatic, but I can’t see her hurting someone- not physically. Especially not Jason. She loved him!”

“Cheryl Blossom has never loved anything or anyone in this world but herself,” Mom snaps. “You of all people should know that, Betty. She’s been horrible to you and Polly for years now.”

“She didn’t even know we existed until Polly started dating Jason,” Betty retorts, and then adds, sullenly, “Why can’t we visit her tomorrow? She deserves to know what happened.”

“No,” Dad says immediately, and forcefully. “She does not. What she needs, Betty, is peace and quiet. We are not going to trigger another breakdown with this. Polly can’t handle it. She’s ill.”

“She’s seventeen,” Betty argues, picking at her noodles. “And she loved Jason, Dad. He was everything to her. Doesn’t that count for something-,”

Dad looks thunderous, and she regrets not just dropping it, but he’s usually much more easy going than Mom. It’s only when Dad does get angry, it’s not temporary like Mom’s rages. He tends to stew for much, much longer. At least, if Mom and his fights are anything to go by. Betty is aware her parents’ marriage has never exactly been loving or affectionate, but they were always perfectly amiable with one another, buying anniversary gifts and putting on a good face in public, and they work well together.

Betty’s never gotten up the nerve to ask Mom about this. Maybe this is just the way some marriages work. They got over the high school infatuation years ago and maybe they wish they’d gone their separate ways after graduation, but it’s too late now and she can’t see them ever getting a divorce. Mom, with all her Christian values and rants about single parents, would never live it down.

“That’s enough, Betty,” Mom says briskly, sweeping up her plate and Dad’s to deposit in the sink. “But I don’t want you going out anywhere tonight. Or tomorrow. You shouldn’t be roaming around by yourself, especially without telling your father or I where you’re going first.”

On Sunday morning it breaks that Cheryl has confessed, at least before her parents showed up in a state of rigid fury to take her back home, not to murdering her brother (or ordering a hit on him) but to lying to the police, and everyone else, in July. She claims Jason was trying to run away, that they concocted the drowning story to make everyone believe he was dead, and that she has no idea what happened to him after he reached the other side of the river.

Even Betty, who wants to believe that as much of a bitch Cheryl is, she would never actually try to hurt someone, is a bit skeptical of this story. Jason only had one year left until he turned eighteen. Why couldn’t he tough out his last year of high school? And why would they try to fake his own death? Especially via drowning, when everyone knows what a strong swimmer he was? 

She supposes so that there would be an excuse for not finding a body, but wouldn’t it have been easier for him to take off somewhere and just lie low until the police gave up? It’s not like the FBI is going to get involved in the case of a teenage runaway. There’s thousands of them out there. Eventually people stop looking for them. Then again, Jason wouldn’t your typical runaway. He’s a Blossom, for crying out loud, not some disenfranchised foster kid or juvenile delinquent.

Betty texts furiously back and forth with Kevin and Veronica about it all day on Sunday, until Mom bursts in at around four to reveal that now Archie, of all people, is down at the station with his father. Betty laughs aloud, convinced she can’t be serious, until Mom goes on about how he confesses to witnessing something to do with Jason’s disappearance, and that it’s obvious now that he and Cheryl Blossom were both in it together.

“Mom,” Betty says flatly, sitting at her desk and massaging her forehead, because she can feel a migraine coming in, “why would Archie help Cheryl kill her brother?”

“Seduced by her sociopathic charm, no doubt,” Mom snaps. “The Andrews men have never been very intelligent, Betty, trust me, I know- I went to high school with his father. That red haired tramp needed some muscle to get the job done, so she talked your little friend into doing her dirty work. The writing’s on the wall.”

“Mom, if you print that, I’m never speaking to you again,” Betty warns, but Mom is already rushing downstairs, still ranting and raving about it.

She calls Archie, twice, but he doesn’t pick up, and she doesn’t know what to say in his voicemail. ‘My mom thinks you helped murder someone?’. She and Archie have just barely started to reconcile. She’s not stupid enough to nuke the entire thing mere days later.

Archie doesn’t reply to any of her calls or texts all night. She hopes he’s not in jail, but that’s ridiculous. Whatever Archie saw or heard, it wasn’t his fault that Jason decided to run away, get abducted, and then viciously beaten and murdered. She’s really more hurt that he didn’t tell her. Maybe he was worried she’d tell her parents, and he’d wind up on the front page of the Register. But it’s working out that way anyways. 

Mom was bugging her for the latest pictures of him on her phone. The latest one she has is from Friday night, of Archie downing a milkshake like a shot while everyone else cheers and pounds on the table, laughing hysterically. He doesn’t look very menacing or suspicious. He looks like a goofy kid messing around with his friends. Jughead is grinning next to him. Jughead doesn’t even smile in his yearbook photos, when he bothers to show up for picture day, but he does smile around Archie.

School on Monday is a mess. The teachers are trying in vain to keep everyone focused, but the halls are buzzing with wild stories about Cheryl, Jason, Archie, and the investigation. Ginger Lopez is claiming that Cheryl was sleeping with both of them- at the same time. Reggie Mantle wants to know if they had sex in front of Jason as like, a form of mental torture.

Archie makes himself scarce, but Betty, Kevin, and Veronica track him down at lunch. He’s basically hiding behind a dumpster, stress eating a PB&J. “Okay, what the fuck?” Kevin demands. “So my dad says you heard a gunshot on the 4th?”

Veronica looks vaguely enthralled by the whole thing, as if she’s on a movie set. Betty kind of wants to tell her that this is the most interesting thing to happen in Riverdale in at least thirty years. 

“Why didn’t you reply to any of my messages?” she asks, trying to sound logically-annoyed rather than ‘I’m still in love with you!’ annoyed. It still sort of hurts to be around him, but luckily the murder thing has sort of taken over the crush thing.

“Dad took my phone away,” Archie scowls. “And I’m grounded. For like, the rest of the month. No leaving the house except for football practice.”

“Priorities,” Kevin snarks, and Veronica laughs.

“When did you hear the gunshot?” Betty presses. If she’s going to start the Blue and Gold back up, now is the time, and this is the story. Friends and family involved or not. Mom and Dad are too busy trying to pin the entire thing on Cheryl to actually get to the bottom of this. 

“In the morning,” Archie admits. “I got up early and went down by the river to work on my music. I figured… I just thought I’d be alone out there, and it’d be a good spot to write. I brought Vegas with me,” he adds, flushing a little, “and then I heard this gunshot. I tried to figure out where it had come from, but I had no idea, so I just packed my stuff up and went home. I thought maybe someone was hunting.”

“In July,” Kevin says drolly. He might be ‘flamboyant’ by Riverdale standards but Betty happens to know that Kevin is a crack shot and knows his way around a rifle, even if he’s not nearly as into hunting as his dad would like him to be. Suffice to say with a sheriff father and a military mother, the Keller household is well-stocked with weapons. 

Archie shrugs, flustered. “I dunno, I just forgot about it, okay? But then I thought… well, everyone thinks it was Cheryl, so any information I have… I mean, it’s not fair to try to make her out to be the bad guy,” he argues.

“What a hero,” Veronica smirks. 

Betty has other concerns at the moment, her mind racing. She’s got to get this story out there. “Archie, where’s Jughead?” she asks swiftly.

He shrugs. “I saw him in class this morning, so unless he went home early… I dunno, sometimes he hangs out by the back stairwell?”

Betty nods, tightens her ponytail, and takes off. “Where are you going?” Veronica calls after her. 

“Recruiting a reporter!” she yells back, picking up speed. Archie was right. Jughead is hanging out by the back stairwell, rolling a joint with the assurance that Riverdale High does not have the staff numbers to have teachers constantly monitoring the halls. 

Betty wrinkles her nose. “You smoke in school?”

Jughead looks at her with something like exasperation. “Only under special circumstances, and this counts. I had a rough weekend.” He looks it, he’s sort of hunched into himself like he’s in pain, and he’s got a nasty bruise on the corner of his mouth. 

“What happened?” she asks, a bit more shyly, suddenly unsure. She really doesn’t know him all that well, after all, and just because they hang out together by way of Archie once in a blue moon does not make them close. 

“Reggie Mantle happened,” Jughead stands up, joint in hand, and walks into the boys bathroom that’s been closed for repairs since school started. Betty resists every instinct in her body screaming not to do this, and hurries in after him. He glances back at her as he pulls out his lighter, confused. “What?”

“I need your help,” she studies the cracked tiles on the floor, face heating up as he lights the joint and takes a hit. 

“I don’t sell drugs, Betty. I just use them.” She can’t tell if he’s joking or not, his tone is so dry.

But he looks a bit amused when she glances up in outrage. “That is not what I’m talking about,” she hisses, and the continues, indignantly, “I’m starting up the Blue and Gold again, and I need writers. You write. Like, a lot. You’re working on a book, right?”

He gives the tiniest of nods, closing his eyes for a moment as he inhales. 

The smell is starting to fill the bathroom, even though he’s standing directly below the half opened window. Betty fights to keep from coughing. “Well, lots of authors started out as journalists, right? And this is what your story is about too! Riverdale’s dark side. I can’t do it all on my own, and you- I know you want to tell the truth too.”

She looks at him hopefully. He stares back at her through heavy-lidded eyes. He doesn’t look very convinced. “I’m not sure our writing styles would… mesh,” he says after a long moment of silence.

“Who cares about that?” Betty snaps, suddenly infuriated. Doesn’t he care at all? This is his town too, even if he hates it. “Jason’s dead, the adults are- well, they’re not getting much done, and I want to know what happened! No one’s even talked to Dilton Doiley and the scouts yet, and everyone knows they were down by the river that day!”

Jughead pauses, and then nods. “You’re right.”

She feels a rush of vindication. 

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll write for you. But you don’t get to censor my work.”

“Fine,” she retorts. “You have to meet deadlines, and let me see all your notes.”

“Deal,” he snaps. There’s the sudden sound of voices in the hall outside, and Betty panics. He rolls his eyes, and puts a finger to his lips. The students pass by, and Betty backs out of the bathroom, leaving him to bake.


	15. Chapter 15

Archie has sort of been operating under the assumption that once he stood up to Geraldine, went to the cops, and told them what happened, everything would be magically fine. If anything, he’s just made everything worse. Now the cops probably think he did it, Dad is furious with him, and Ms. Grundy has cancelled his independent study music lessons. Indefinitely.

He sits in her office, glowering at the floor. Ms. Grundy is drinking tea and staring at him mournfully, as if someone has just died. She can’t do this. It’s not fair. Music is everything to him, and now she’s shutting him out, just because he did the right thing. At least, he thinks it was the right thing. It doesn’t feel like it right now. 

“Archie,” she says after a moment, not unkindly. “Please look at me.”

He doesn’t; what is she going to do? Give him detention? She gave up the right to be his teacher for real when they had sex for the first time, which was four days after they first met outside of school. It’s not like he was traumatized by it or anything, like Jughead keeps suggesting, as if he was- as if he was raped or something.

That’s now how it was. Besides, guys don’t… well, when guys get raped, it’s not… it’s not like that, and besides, he definitely wanted to do it. He was just too shy to really initiate anything, because, she is like… an adult, even if she’s not a very old adult. And the furthest he’d ever gone before that was clumsily making out with some junior girl at a party when he was a freshman.

But he didn’t feel clumsy or awkward or weird with her, he felt special, even though he knows she must have been with tons of other guys, she is twenty six… But she said he did really, really good, and they kissed some more afterwards, in the hazy warmth of her car, parked down by the train tracks. She even curled up in his lap; she’s not a tiny woman but she is shorter than him and slender, and it felt… weird but good. As if they were the same age or something.

Finally he glances up at her, sullenly. 

“I understand why you went to the police,” she tells him softly. “But you have to understand that your actions have consequences.”

“I didn’t even mention you,” he insists, struggling to keep his voice down. They’re relatively secluded here in the quiet music wing, but anyone could open the door at any moment, which is why she remains seated behind her desk, sipping her tea, and he sprawls in a chair that’s too small for him, scowling.

“It doesn’t matter,” she frowns prettily; Geraldine does everything prettily. Even when she’s upset she’s never… really upset, he’s never seen her face crumble, her cry ugly tears or get red and splotchy. She just draws into herself and goes still and silent, like a statue or a painting. 

Not like when Dad’s angry. Dad was furious with him for lying, furious with him for sneaking around all the time, and furious with him trying to avoid all discussion of it. Archie hasn’t fought with him like that since right after Mom left for Chicago and Dad was still reeling in shock that she’d actually gone. And now as soon as Dad tells Mom he’s going to have her calling him left and right too. Great.

“If they decide to press your story,” Ms. Grundy goes on, quietly, “you know what will happen, Archie. You’ll have to tell them everything, and it will ruin both of our lives.”

“But we didn’t do anything wrong,” he protests, but it comes out weaker than it sounded in his head.

Geraldine pauses, mid-sip, and then reluctantly swallows. “Of course not, but… other people won’t see it that way. They won’t understand. I’ll lose my job, and your father- imagine how he would react.”

Archie feels distinctly uneasy discussing his dad with Ms. Grundy. He looks away, feeling almost guilty. “I swear to God I won’t say anything,” he mutters, “no matter what. Even if they… even if they thought we’d… there’s no proof, right? Nobody ever saw us together-,”

“We can’t know that for sure,” she interrupts him sharply, “and what might have looked… innocent once, in the bigger picture…,” she shakes her head, a few locks of dirty blonde hair falling her in her face momentarily before she brushes them away. “That’s why any private lessons are completely out of the question, Archie. We can’t risk it.”

His face stings as if he’s been slapped. “You’re overreacting,” he accuses, knowing it’s childish even as the words slip out of his mouth. “You don’t-,”

“Archie, listen to me,” Geraldine leans in, face drawn and intense, across her desk, almost as if to take his hand in her own, but he keeps his hands wedged in between his knees. “You don’t- before I came here, I was-,” she hesitates, “my life was very different before I got this job, Archie. This is all I have. You… you’ll understand when you’re older.”

“That’s funny,” he snaps, voice raising slightly, “since I guess I’m plenty old enough to fuck you in the backseat of a Volkswagen-,”

There’s the sound of a door closing down the hall, and he immediately stops talking. Ms. Grundy is pale and tense, and stands up. “You’d better get back to class. Now.” Her tone is far more severe than usual, and he doesn’t dare argue with her as she ushers him out of the room.

Cheryl tracks him down when the final bell rings and he’s unlocking his bike from the bike rack, still in a terrible mood from the meeting. It’s the middle of September but still pretty warm outside in the afternoon, and he thinks she must be sweltering in her long-sleeved black dress and blood red high heels. “It appears,” Cheryl says archly, crossing her arms just under her chest as he fumbles with the lock, “that I owe you a favor, Archibald Andrews.”

Archie reddens. He genuinely can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. Did his confession make things worse for her? Everyone’s been gawking at her all day, but she’s obviously not under arrest if she’s here at school, right? “Look, Cheryl, I… I was just trying to help-,”

She lays a pale hand on his shoulder; he’s simultaneously shocked and a bit terrified. Cheryl might be a social outcast currently, but he’s sure she’ll claw her way back to the top one way or another, and everything about her still screams ‘intimidating senior’ to him. “And you did.” But she sounds almost earnest, which might be a first for someone like Cheryl.

“Everyone thinks I murdered my own twin in cold blood,” she continues, far more drolly than he would be, were he facing the suspicion of the entire town, “but you actually set out to clear my name.” Cheryl gives a tiny shrug. “Granted, you didn’t exactly… knock me off the suspects list, but I do appreciate the effort, Archie. I would have never thought you had it in you… no offense.” She flashes a quick smile at him.

Archie very carefully moves out of the range of her very long, very sharp nails. “Uh… thanks, Cheryl. For what it’s worth, I believe you. I know you’re not…,” he feels embarrassed just saying it, “you know… guilty of anything.”

“Oh, I’m guilty of plenty of things,” Cheryl’s smile grows even more sardonic, “but I do draw the line somewhere, you know. Even a Blossom has standards.” She grows a bit more serious as he extricates his bike from the rack. “I don’t like owing favors, so let’s get this over with, shall we?” She claps her hands together. “What can I do for you, Mr. Andrews? Short of you,” she glances him up and down, “you know… sleeping with you. No offense, but I don’t really go for younger men.”

He just stares at her blankly. Is she serious? Was that a joke? Does it matter? It’s Cheryl. This might just be her normal state. “Er, Cheryl… you don’t owe me anything, I’m not… I did it because it was the right thing to do.” And because Jughead guilt tripped him into it. But mostly because it was the right thing to do. He hopes.

“Right,” Cheryl sort of pops the word like bubble gum, and doesn’t exactly look convinced that he did it out of the goodness of his heart. He’s not sure that he can blame her for being doubtful, either. “Well, consider it a generous gift, then. What’s it going to be? A date with one of Riverdale’s more tolerable cows? Money?” She raises an eyebrow. “Pills? My mother has quite the collection of painkillers-,”

Jesus Christ, all he needs is someone to overhear Cheryl Blossom trying to sell him drugs and they’re both screwed. Betty’s parents will have a field day with this one- ANDREWS AND BLOSSOM- IN CAHOOTS? He can see it now. “Music,” he says quickly, interrupting her, to her obvious displeasure, “I need help with my music. Do you… do you know anyone?”

Cheryl pauses, considering, and then grins. “You’re in luck, Archie. I just might.” Without another word, she struts off, leaving him completely confused, a feeling he’s learned to associate heavily with Cheryl Blossom. He gets on his bike and slowly pedals away, wishing Betty was riding home with him, but she disappeared off with Veronica, who has some big date tonight with Chuck Clayton. 

He feels a quick stab of… not jealousy, it’s closer to disappointment. Everyone- well, most people like Chuck, even if he can be kind of cocky and fake, and Veronica would have to be crazy to not go out with a senior as popular as him. They’ll be one of those alpha couples, or something. 

It’s not even that he has this massive crush on Veronica, although he won’t deny she’s… really pretty, especially when she talks in that clear, controlled, way with that confident look in her dark eyes, it’s like… well-oiled machinery or something. And what he remembers from Cheryl’s party, well, he definitely liked that. But now that they’ve made up with Betty there’s no way he’d ever go for her again, and besides, he and Grundy… well, they’re not… not together, right?

To his surprise, Josie McCoy texts him just after he’s gotten home, as he rummages in the fridge for something to eat while Vegas tracks dog food across the kitchen floor. He didn’t even know her and Cheryl were friends, but they’re both fairly popular seniors, and Josie is the mayor’s daughter, after all. 

**hey andrews it’s josie. cher gave me your number. you get one chance with us. the pussycats aren’t your entertainment, we’re here to work. got it?**

He texts back a multitude of question marks. Josie is notoriously private about Pussycats stuff. Like, she caught someone writing down their lyrics once and basically bit their head off about in front of half the student body during an assembly. Josie’s nowhere near Cheryl levels of fear-and-loathing, but can be pretty intimidating for someone so short, wearing cat ears.

**we’re rehearsing every night this week. you can come see how we do things. bring any of your friends, and you’re done.**

Archie starts to type ‘I’m grounded’ but then stops. No. He’s got to make this work, somehow. It’s not like Dad’ll be home to make sure he’s here, anyways, so the punishment is pretty useless. Besides, he’s fifteen, not some little kid who’s going to just do what he’s told. This is way more important than whatever point about ‘honesty’ Dad’s trying to make. 

**Ill be there!**

A few minutes later Josie replies, 

***I’ll. 7 PM at my house.**

Archie smiles for the first time all day, taking a bite out a poptart. At least something good came out of the whole thing.


	16. Chapter 16

Veronica has been on her share of dates, so it’s not as if she’s some wide-eyed little lamb with no idea what to expect. She partied with plenty of older guys back in the city, and just because she didn’t have very many second dates doesn’t mean she’s new to this. 

Chuck is a big fish in a little pond, and she goes into the date determined not to let him bowl her over just because he’s the star quarterback and more than a little cocky about his six-pack and perfect jawline.

Besides, the available date locations in Riverdale… essentially boil down to the diner and the drive-in. Veronica’s not dumb enough to agree to ‘go for a drive’ with some country hick either, so she and Chuck arrange to meet at Pop’s for ice cream at seven… and see where it goes from there. 

She’s not blind to the way he looks at her, but she’s not planning on letting it get too far tonight, even if he’s turn out to be as suave as they come. She’s just not- well, she’s just not looking to let the first guy who comes knocking- alright, she’s a virgin. She’s done a lot of stuff, but she’s never had sex. Of any kind. 

None of that ‘the back door doesn’t count in the eyes of Jesus!’ bullshit. She hasn’t. The furthest she’s ever gone is some heavy petting. There’s been a few near misses, and she certainly had plenty of opportunities, especially once she turned fourteen and puberty hit her like a semi-truck.

But she… Veronica doesn’t know, she just thinks for her it should be special. With someone she really cares about, and she’s never cared about anyone… like that. Of course, add a serious helping of Catholic guilt to the mix, and you can guarantee that lust is one deadly sin she’s thus far avoided… for the most part. The way she sees it, she still has the right to make out with whoever she wants, right? No one judges guys for it.

So while she agonizes over an outfit, she firmly crosses that off the mental checklist. She is not sleeping with Chuck, even if she ends up really, really liking him. Which she’s a bit doubtful of- not that he’s really done anything wrong, but he seems a bit… shallow. 

And maybe she has no right to judge, but everyone’s allowed to be a filthy hypocrite when it comes to relationships. Besides, she’s trying to be better when it comes to this stuff. Even if she does end up casually dating someone, she’d rather it be someone she’s actually friends with.

Thankfully, Mom isn’t there when she arrives at Pop’s. The last thing she needs is her mother waitressing her date, eavesdropping the entire time, while Veronica struggles to maintain her pride in the face of the mortification of it all- Hermione Lodge carrying dirty dishes and Veronica Lodge on a date in a sleazy diner in upstate New York.

Veronica typically likes to be fashionably late, but Chuck was either there early or right on time, and has already secured them a booth. She hesitates for a moment in the doorway, then puts on her best smile and approaches. She tried not to overdress for it, but she knows her clothes are part of what Chuck seems to like about her, so she compromised with an indigo top and a more casual blazer.

“You look great,” he says, flashing her a winning smile, and she sits down, delicately picking up a menu. 

“Thanks. You look nice too.” He changed from the tee shirt he wore to school today to a button down, anyways, and she can tell he must have put on more cologne. At least it’s not overpowering, the way Archie’s sometimes is. “What do you usually get here?” she asks, scanning the dessert list.

“A fudge brownie sundae,” he says with a slightly sheepish look, as if she might think him childish for it, but then adds, regaining some of his usual confidence, “want to split one with me?”

Normally Veronica’s response would be a firm no, because sharing ice cream is sort of disgusting, if you think about it, but there’s something endearing about him- maybe it’s his eyes, they’re very vivid and intense, maybe due to his heavy brow, and she gives a little shrug and nods. “Sure.”

The date’s fine, as far as dates go- they can’t really talk about school, since they’re two grades apart, so they talk about college admissions instead, even if Chuck’s already set, with a football scholarship to Syracuse, and being new- the Claytons moved here from Connecticut the summer before Chuck’s freshman year. They’re both only children as well, which might be pretty obvious, given each of their respective egos. 

Veronica feels a baseline attraction to him that’s stoked slightly when his hand brushes against hers while they root around for brownie bits with their spoons, and when he asks if she wants to go somewhere else afterwards, she agrees. He even insists on paying the bill, which is sweet of him. At this point, she’s assuaged enough of her doubts to trust that he’s not going to jump her or anything once she gets into his car.

Chuck drives a white Ford Focus, and it’s impressively neat for a teenaged boy. They park down by the river, still chatting amiably, before he makes the first move and leans over a little, letting their arms brush. Veronica doesn’t pull away, and smiles coyly, a bit smug about the obvious effect she has on him, even in fairly conservative clothes. 

“You’re not like most sophomores,” he tells her huskily.

“How so?” she challenges, raising an eyebrow. 

Chuck grins. His teeth are very white. “You’re not afraid to go for what you want.” He leans in and kisses her, and her blazer slips off her shoulders. She wriggles in the seat to get in a better position, and kisses him back, hands coming up to hold his face. He’s breathing harshly and she can smell the river through the open windows. Chuck’s a good kisser, if a bit more dominant than what she prefers. She likes a guy who will let her take charge once in a while, but he practically dwarfs her. 

When one of his hands slips down to her chest, she breaks it off. She didn’t mind the little bit of tongue he was trying out, but she’s not ready to go that far yet. “Hey, wait,” she gasps breathlessly. “I don’t… I just want to kiss a bit. Is that okay?”

He’s obviously disappointed, but not about turn her down, and they make out a little longer, before taking a breather to listen to music and take a few selfies. Veronica’s face is flushed and her hair a little askew, but she’s sort of proud in herself, in a way, like she successfully managed to wrangle a bull or something. 

She’s glad he didn’t whine when she told him they were sticking at first base, and she’s happy that his breath was fresh, despite the sundae, and that he keeps glancing over at her like they just pulled off a heist or something.

It’s nice. He’s nice, and he offers to drive her home without her having to ask. He doesn’t mention going out again, but she knows he’s just playing cool, and that by the end of the week, he’ll probably be hitting her up for another date, even if it’s just to hook up again. She thanks him for the ice cream and the drive and he evens waits to make sure she gets in the building before pulling away.

And then she walks into school the next day and Tina Patel is hovering eagerly near her locker. Veronica rolls her eyes at her. Cheryl might have the excuse of being in mourning to pardon her mega-bitch attitude, but Tina’s just a typical follower, and a small town one at that. “Can I help you?”

“I just thought you should know everyone’s talking about how you ‘helped’ Chuck out last night,” Tina flashes her a sickly-sweet smile. “A blow-job on the first date? Way to get around, V.” 

She walks off smugly before Veronica has a chance to even say anything. She hasn’t checked her phone all morning- she’s really stayed off social media since moving her, for the first part, but now she pulls it out of her bag. Her notifications are flooded. They haven’t been like this since the trial.

She frantically opens Instagram and finds Chuck’s profile. His latest picture if a selfie of her and him in his car… with some shitty edit of maple syrup imposed all over her face. “What the fuck,” she snaps aloud, and a few passing guys snicker. 

Veronica looks around wildly, just in time to see Betty and Kevin hurrying over to her. “What the hell is this?” she demands, holding her phone out in front of them. Betty’s eyes widen almost comically, and immediately looks away flushing. Kevin just mutters ‘oh boy’ under his breath.

“Did Chuck post that?” Betty asks meekly, since Veronica is almost conducting electricity, she’s so infuriated and shocked. 

“Who else?” Kevin snorts. “Sorry for not giving you more of a warning, Veronica, but I didn’t think he was ballsy enough to try a Sticky Maple with the new girl, of all people.”

“It’s called a Sticky Maple,” Veronica sneers in disbelief, and then adds, “I thought he was a player, not a… a complete fuck boy!”

She’s more than pissed off and humiliated. She feels betrayed. She thought- well, she didn’t think they were suddenly friends, but she thought she could trust him insofar as to not, you know, post a picture of her insinuating that she gave him a blowjob and then let him ejaculate on her face online for his…. oh, 819 followers. Fantastic. At least he doesn’t have the social media presence someone at Spence would have. 

She thought she and Chuck were on equal levels, that he actually respected her. He acted like it, last night. He wasn’t pushy or rough or overly domineering, and he didn’t throw a fit or sulk when she made it clear he wasn’t getting laid. So what? That was all some act to get her to lower her defenses and think he was actually a decent human being, instead of a misogynistic piece of shit who cares more about impressing his moronic friends than a total scumbag?

If she reads the comments, she’s going to be sick. There’s almost 60 already. No. During Daddy’s trial she had to put on a brave face and ignore everything. Not now. This isn’t about her family or her money, it’s about her body, and it’s personal. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to rip him apart with her own bare hands. She’s going to shove her Louboutin so far up his ass he’s going to wish he was never conceived. 

Betty is rambling about going to the principal, and Kevin is countering that Chuck will just get a slap on the wrist, if anything. Well, he deserves a chainsaw to the balls, if you ask Veronica. “Where is Chuck first period?” she demands. 

“Veronica, you can’t… You’ll just give him the attention he wants,” Betty counters, chewing on her lower lip.

“He’s in gym,” says Kevin with a shrug, clearly interested in what she’s going to do.

“Looks like I’m going to be late to Chem,” Veronica smiles bitterly, and stalks off in the direction of the gymnasium. After a few moments, there’s the sound of Betty running after her, and she’s secretly glad. 

“What Chuck did is awful,” Betty tells her as Veronica storms down a staircase, scattering freshmen in her wake, “and I’m going to cover it in the newspaper- you’re definitely not the only person he’s done this to.”

Veronica doesn’t see how writing about it is going to fix anything, but she doesn’t have the time or patience to debate it at the moment. “Well,” she says through gritted teeth, “I am the only Lodge he’s done this to, and he’s about to regret it.”

First period gym hasn’t started yet and everyone is still sitting on the bleachers. Chuck is surrounded by a pack of laughing senior and junior boys, with a few girls hanging around nearby, desperate for him to notice them. Veronica pities them immensely. She fixates on his smug, arrogant face with her best icy glare, and calls up to him, “Chuck.”

He spots her, and Betty hanging back just behind her, and grins. “Hey, V.”

“”Take the picture down,” she snaps, “you fucking ingrate, before I do something I probably won’t regret.” Asking nicely isn’t going to work with guys like this. She has to intimidate him, shame him into action, or he’ll never take her seriously. 

Reggie Mantle hoots in shock and slaps Chuck on the shoulder. “Guess she doesn’t like syrup, huh, Clayton?”

“That’s not what she was saying last night,” Chuck retorts snidely, and looks down at Veronica in amusement, like she’s funny, like she’s being hysterical. “What’s the big deal? We had fun, didn’t we?”

Another boy says something under his breath, and Veronica fights the urge to scream and throw her phone directly at his face. “You talk big for someone who didn’t even have the balls to ask me if I was down to fuck,” she mocks viciously. Two can play this game. She doesn’t care that he’s a senior, that he’s popular. If he doesn’t take the photo down, she’s going to make his life a living hell. By whatever means necessary.

“Meow,” someone chuckles, and Chuck looks stunned for a moment, but it passes quickly. 

His gaze darkens from humor to something approaching anger. “You should be thanking me, Veronica. It’s practically a first place medal. I don’t let just anyone ride the Chuck wagon-,”

“You’re disgusting!” Betty snaps fiercely, cutting him off. “Veronica didn’t do that, and even if she had, it doesn’t give you the right to be such a… such a chauvinistic pig!”

Chuck steps down a few rows, smirking. “Fuck, Betty, are you on your period right now or what? Calm the fuck down. It’s just a joke.”

“You’re a joke, Chuck,” Veronica spits. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Take the picture down. Now.” Her free hand balls up into a fist. Betty puts a hand on her shoulders, which are heaving with fury.

“And I’m telling you,” he sneers, “that you’re not in the city anymore, Ronnie. This is Riverdale, home of the Bulldogs, not the whingey betas you’re used to chilling with. Better get used to it.”

He mock growls at her, a few boys start barking, and the bleachers burst into scattered laughter. Veronica surges forward to slap him, and is only held back by the combination of Betty’s frantic grasp and the gym teacher coming in and blowing his whistle.


	17. Chapter 17

Jughead doesn’t have anything against Dilton Doiley, but Jesus Christ does the guy have a stick up his ass. Dilton is a short, skinny junior with a permanently aggravated look on his thin face and the sort of thick glasses that would have gotten his ass kicked if this was an 80s high school movie. Luckily, it’s not, and Dilton keeps a fairly low profile, so while Reggie gives him a lot of shit, he seems to escape everyone’s notice most of the time.

“Dude,” says Jughead, massaging his brow, because there’s a lot of things he’d rather be doing this early in the morning than harassing Dilton as the older boy stiffly walks towards the school. “Just tell me if you heard the gunshot or not.” He spotted Dilton at an intersection a few blocks back, and has been reluctantly tailing him ever since. It’s not hard to keep up with him, as brisk as a pace Doiley is setting. 

Dilton finally turns around as they enter campus, and snaps, brow furrowed. “Don’t you think if we heard anything we would have reported it to the police?”

“No,” says Jughead flatly, “people lie to the cops all the time, Dilton.”

“Well, I don’t make a habit of lying to law enforcement,” Dilton sneers, with a look that suggests ‘unlike you’ and turns away again, adjusting the straps on his military style backpack. “The only thing we heard were birds. And eventually, Cheryl having a breakdown on the bank.”

Jughead slows down, letting Dilton stalk off, and sighs. He’s pretty sure Dilton is lying to him, but he doesn’t know why, or why would Dilton wouldn’t come clean to the police in the first place. He’s one of those guys who collects World War II memorabilia and probably plans to join the air force or something as soon as he graduates. ‘ROTC was made for you and me’ and all that. Maybe he knows whoever shot the gun, and is lying to protect them.

His day is fairly uneventful, although the hallways are buzzing with rumors about something Veronica either did or didn’t do, until Betty corners him in the hall after first period and tells him he needs to be in the Blue and Gold office during lunch, because Veronica has a story for them, and while he debates just skipping it, since it’s not like he got anything out of Dilton, a freshman he doesn’t know flags him down at his locker. 

“I’m Trev Brown,” says said freshman, who is baby-faced but tall for fourteen, with a nervous air. He’s pretty sure this is Valerie Brown’s, whose in the year above and one of Josie McCoy’s bandmates, younger brother. They have the exact same thoughtful brown eyes. “I saw you talking to Dilton before school today. I… I have something to tell you.”

“Spit it out,” retorts Jughead, fumbling for his notebook in his backpack. Trev glances around frantically for a moment, as if anyone cares what they’re talking about, and then mutters, “Dilton shot the gun.”

Jughead freezes, stares up at Trev from his crouched position, and then stands up abruptly. “Are you telling me that Dilton Doiley shot-,”

Trev interrupts him to blurt out, “No, he didn’t shoot anyone, he was just- he was just showing us how to fire it.”

“Showing a bunch of middle schoolers how to shoot,” Jughead says skeptically. “Was this for a badge, or-”

Trev shrugs, hunching his shoulders a bit like he’s worried Jughead’s about to drag him into Weatherbee’s office by the collar. “He didn’t mean to actually… his finger slipped. It freaked everyone out. Dilton most of all. He didn’t ask his dad for permission to take it, so he told us we couldn’t tell anyone. And I’m not in middle school,” he adds defensively at the end.

“How fucking stupid is he?” Jughead asks dryly, but it’s a rhetorical question.Trev has no reason to lie to him, and seems pretty incapable of it, anyways, and he can easily picture Dilton having a conniption over the thought of his probably-a-little-fascist father finding out he ‘borrowed’ his gun to show off in front of some thirteen year olds.

“Jughead!” Trev jumps and Jughead glances over at Betty marching across the hall towards them like Moses parting the Red Sea. Since assuming leadership of the newspaper there’s a certain confidence to her that was never there before, and no matter how bad of a mood she might be in, Jughead thinks it’s an improvement over the Betty he knew in middle school, who tended to quail at the thought of upsetting or offending anyone. 

She stares at Trev for a second and then says, “Trev, aren’t you on JV football?” Trev nods in alarm. “Know anything about a playbook?” Betty asks in a deceptively measured tone. Trev freezes, then gives another jerky nod. 

“Great,” says Betty briskly, “come on, we need you for a few minutes.” She waves him over with a look that leaves no room for argument. It reminds Jughead vaguely of her mother, which he’s not sure is a good or bad thing. Alice Cooper is far from his (or anyone who isn’t a Cooper)’s biggest fan. He’s still not sure how Betty turned out so remarkably well-adjusted for someone with a mom like that. Then again, maybe he’s a testament to the entire concept of ‘the resilient child’ himself. 

“Uh, I don’t know if I should…,” Trev trails off dejectly as Betty ushers him into the newspaper’s office, Jughead trailing after them, slightly amused by Betty’s newfound attitude and curious as to what this is all about. 

What does football have to do with Jason’s death? Jason didn’t even play it. He was into all those rich kid sports, water polo and whatnot. Country club stuff. The Blossoms never shut up about how they’re distantly related to the Kennedys. 

Ethel Muggs is also there, standing in a cramped corner by the window. Ethel is tall, red haired, and overweight, which is probably the high school version of the unholy trinity or something, in terms of things to be bullied about. Jughead knows she’s quite smart, if a bit of a mouse, and he’s surprised to see her here with a determined look on her face.

“What’s going on?” he asks Betty, even more at a loss. As far as he knows, Ethel and Betty aren’t particularly close, even if they belong to the same tribe of reserved, academically gifted ‘good girls’.

“Chuck Clayton’s running a ring of misogynistic dirtbags who go around harassing and intimidating girls by spreading lies about them,” Betty’s blue eyes are flinty, which is a bit unsettling on her heart-shaped face. 

Jughead has never seen her look like this before. It’s unnerving, in a good way. Betty is pretty when she smiles. She’s striking when she’s infuriated- he’s seen her angry and indignant before, but this is more like an adult wrath, not girlish outrage, and he wouldn’t like to be the one of the receiving end of it, blonde ponytail and polka dot blouse or not.

“Ethel,” she continues, with a nod to their classmate, “is the only one willing to go on record about it besides Veronica.”

Ethel swallows hard. “Chuck um… I helped tutor him in pre-calc last year for about a month.”

“But you were a freshman last year,” Jughead says, frowning. 

“I took pre-calc as a freshman,” Ethel says, raising her chin a little in defiance, and he doesn’t say anything else. “Chuck sort of… um… flirted with me, I guess. I thought he was just teasing me, because…,” she shrugs and glances down at the ground, hands worrying at her modest sweater, “guys don’t usually… pay attention to me, but he was really sweet. We only kissed once,”

Her voice rises a bit, shrilly, and she glances back up, looking close to tears and furious at the same time, “but then he went and told everyone I let him have sex with me! And no one believed me when I told them he was lying!”

Betty reaches over and squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. “Okay,” Jughead exhales- he knew Chuck was an asshole, but he didn’t know he was that much of a piece of shit, and glances between Betty and Trev. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Apparently Chuck and some other guys keep a notebook detailing their ‘scores’,” Betty’s tone is disgusted, “and I was wondering if Trev might know where it is. We need solid proof of what Chuck’s been doing, or Weatherbee will never take this seriously.”

Trev looks like he’s on the verge of bolting out of the room, and is probably regretting ever approaching Jughead about anything, now that he’s been roped into a completely different investigation. 

But then he sighs, and says, “I’ve seen it.” Faced with Ethel’s glare, he raises his hands weakly, “But I had nothing to do with it, I swear. Chuck only lets a few people write in it, and that’s- he shouldn’t be doing that in the first place.”

“So where does he keep it?” 

“In his gym locker,” Trev admits freely. The warning bell rings outside, and he blanches. “Look, I have to get to class…”

Jughead looks to Betty and Ethel as Trev dashes out. “How are you going to get Chuck to hand over the notebook?”

Betty frowns. “We could try to get Archie to swipe it during practice…,”

Jughead rolls his eyes. In theory, that should be a good plan, but in practice… 

“You know him. He’s not so great with the subterfuge stuff. And if Chuck catches him, then he’d take the notebook and either destroy it-,” that’s what Jughead would do, but he’s a rational human being, “or hide it somewhere we have no chance of finding it, like at home.”

“So what do you think we should do?” Ethel challenges. Betty has her hands on her hips.

He mulls it over for a moment, and then announces matter of factly, “Break into the school tonight and get it ourselves, after the janitors have left.” 

They can’t risk trying anything right after school; football practice will be going on and it’ll be difficult to get in and out of the boy’s locker room without being noticed by either the coach, another player, or Chuck himself. He is team captain, after all.

Ethel gapes at him. 

“We can’t break into the school,” Betty snaps, as if he’s just proposed a high-stakes heist a la Ocean’s Eleven. “Are you insane? If we got caught, we’d wind up in jail!”

“Right,” says Jughead, with the barest hint of a smile, “but we’re not going to get caught, because I have keys.”

“You have the keys,” Betty repeats doubtfully.

“I made a copy.” Jughead doesn’t feel like going into detail about how that came about.

“Why do you have a copy of the keys?” Ethel asks after a moment of shocked silence.

He gives a tiny shrug. Betty meets his eyes briefly, and then looks away. He has a copy of the school keys because he’s broken into the school before, only it’s not breaking in if you have the keys, since you’re not breaking anything. He’s broken into the school before to sleep when he couldn’t get into the drive-in for whatever reason. The teacher’s lounge has a nice old leather couch, and food in the cupboard.

“Alright,” Betty says, exhaling. “Alright. Let’s… let’s meet here at eleven. The janitors should be gone by then.”

“Are you serious?” Ethel asks, eyes wide. “Betty, if we get caught… we could be expelled. Or- charged with breaking and entering-,” her eyes flicker over to Jughead, as if she suspects he might have a track record with this. He’s not offended. Her suspicions are correct.

“We can’t let Chuck get away with this,” Betty says firmly, “and Jughead won’t let us get caught, right?”

Her ‘right’ pinions him with its sharpness, and he nods slowly. If he doesn’t, she’ll probably kill him herself before the cops even show up.


	18. Chapter 18

Betty is already regretting this. 

It’s the stupidest plan imaginable. They’re going to get caught, expelled, arrested, and then Mom is going to murder her with her bare hands. She’s single-handedly about to ruin her entire life all because Veronica just had to go on a date with Chuck. 

Okay. That’s not fair, and Chuck has been pulling this shit for a long time, way before Veronica even moved here. She’s not the only girl he’s victimized. And the only way to stop him is to get that notebook. So… for the first time in her fifteen years on this planet, she’s sneaking out of the house. 

It’s not like it’s hard. Polly used to do it all the time, after all. One time Dad caught her halfway out the window while Jason’s Chrysler Imperial idled outside, and Betty is still shocked the cops didn’t show up, on account of all the screaming. Then again, Polly was never overly concerned about getting caught. It’s not like she didn’t care, but Betty is pretty sure she’s overthinking things way more than her sister ever did.

Mom and Dad don’t get back from the office until ten, and then Dad goes straight upstairs to bed while Mom watches TV in the living room. Betty lies in bed, fully-dressed, lights off, in case Mom comes in to check on her, but luckily Mom’s footsteps bypass Betty’s room entirely. Then Betty waits another fifteen minutes or so, just in case Mom gets up again, before she dares creep out of bed, grab her backpack, and ever so slowly pry open the window.

Shaking with nerves, she scoots out onto the roof of the porch, somehow convinced she’s going to plummet through it, and inches her way over to the edge before slowly lowering herself down to the ground. Her arm muscles burn in protest, and she has the brief thought that she really should start working out or something before her teenaged metabolism stops working so well.

Once she’s on the ground, she doesn’t waste any time walking quickly away from the house. It’s too risky to try to get her bike out of the garage, and although it will take longer to walk to school, it’s not that far. 

The roads are all but deserted, anyways, on a Wednesday night, but that doesn’t do much for her anxiety as she hurries along. This is probably how people wind up dead in a ditch. Sneaking out for some stupid plan. What if everyone else blows it off and she’s the only one there? 

But when she makes it onto school grounds, out of breath and even more tense than before now that it’s final, she’s really going through with this, she makes out two familiar shapes through the gloom. Jughead is sitting on some steps, looking a little too at ease with the whole thing, while Ethel waits nervously nearby, practically wringing her hands. 

Betty doesn’t smile or greet either of them, only turns to Jughead frantically. “Can you get us in?”

“Nah, I just thought we’d sit out here and chit-chat,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes as he gets up with a quiet huff and fidgeting with the side door. Betty shifts from foot to foot. What if there’s an alarm system? Is she really going to out-run the cops? What if someone said something, and Weatherbee knows? 

But then Jughead unlocks the door without much fuss, and it opens nearly silently. The three of them file into the school, and Betty cautiously takes out her phone, lighting up their path down the hallway. They take the shortest route towards the gym, and Betty resists the urge to peek in every passing, darkened classroom. It’s just an old high school. Nothing’s lurking in wait to jump out at her. 

But then, as they head down the stairs towards the gymnasium, Ethel gasps abruptly and Betty stumbles back, nearly knocking into Jughead and sending them both sprawling down the stairs, only he quickly grabs her by the backpack, like an unruly elementary schooler, steadying both of them. Someone is standing at the bottom of the stairs. Someones-

“Veronica?” Ethel squeaks.

“Kevin?” Betty hisses.

“Jesus Christ,” Jughead mutters, sounding more exasperated than concerned with their company.

Veronica and Kevin are waiting for them below, Veronica with expectant hands on her hips, Kevin looking like he’d very much rather not be doing this, although that’s sort of his usual look.

“Did you seriously think you were going to leave me out of this?” Veronica demands, not bothering to keep her voice down.

“I- you were going on about like, slashing Chuck’s tires!” Betty protests weakly. It’s not that she didn’t include Veronica on purpose, she just… Veronica’s not part of the paper and she seemed less the ‘sneak around the school’ type and more the ‘order a hit on Chuck’ type. Then again, what does that make Betty? Had you told her yesterday she’d be here-

“Oh,” Veronica waves a hand dismissively, “yeah, already covered that.”

“We filled his car with a shit-ton of maple syrup,” says Kevin eagerly. “Like… he’s gonna need new seats.”

“Oh my god,” says Betty, not sure whether to be scandalized or impressed. “Kevin, what if your dad finds out?”

“My rebellion had to happen some time,” Kevin says sagely, and Veronica shoots him an approving look. “There you go, Keller.”

She hoists up a crowbar. “So, are we breaking and entering, or what?”

“Steady there, Tony Soprano,” Jughead groans, coming down around Betty and Ethel, who is still shocked into silence, before managing, “You brought a crowbar?”

“Yes, Ethel,” Veronica rolls her eyes. “Unless any of you happen to know Chuck’s combination.”

The rest of them shrug. The group makes their way through the gym lobby and towards the boy’s locker room. The main door is locked, and Betty looks at Jughead beseechingly, but he just shrugs and leads them through the gym and down a cramped side hall, where there’s another door. This one is unlocked. 

The locker room, predictably, smells like sweat, bad cologne, and testosterone. “Let’s make this quick,” Veronica says a little too efficiently, and then it slowly sinks in for Betty that none of them know which locker is Chuck’s. Crap. Crap crap crap. They really did not think this through. Like, at all. 

“Don’t worry,” stage-whispers Kevin. “I marked it up for us after school. Old Testament style,” he grins a little too happily, and jerks his head at the locker with a massive X smeared across it in marker, under which is scrawled, NO ONE WANTS TO FUCK THE CHUCK.

Jughead snorts.

Ethel cracks something close to a smile. 

Veronica is already winding up for the first strike.

“Shouldn’t we maybe try the lock first-,” Betty begins, but it’s too late. For such a petite girl, Veronica has one hell of a hit. She should play softball, Betty reflects, once her ears stop ringing from how loud the blow was.

“Holy hell,” says Jughead, sounding impressed for the first time with anything Veronica has done.

Veronica turns to Ethel, and presents the bar to her. “Want a go?”

“I can’t…” Ethel trails off, and her gaze flickers between the now slightly dented locker and the crowbar in Veronica’s manicured, clenched grip. To Betty’s surprise. Ethel takes it, and Veronica steps out of the way. Ethel exhales slowly, then swings, gritting her teeth, and the force of the blow pops the locker open immediately. Kevin claps politely.

“I was pretending it was his face,” Veronica comments, glancing slyly at Ethel. “You too?”

“No,” says Ethel, panting a little, “lower than that.”

Jughead wastes no time in rummaging through the locker, and Betty notices he’s wearing gloves. After a few moments he turns, holding out a plain school notebook. Betty snatches it from him in her eagerness to confirm what it is, and her hopes are fulfilled as she flips through it, Veronica peering over one shoulder, Ethel the other. 

“Oh,” comments Veronica sarcastically, “they’ve got a points system and everything.”

They do. Betty tries to cover Ethel’s score, when she notices it, with her thumb, but the taller girl spots it anyways. “Fat slut,” Ethel reads aloud, voice starting off tremulous, then hardening to something else, “seven points.”

“Wow,” sneers Veronica. ‘I’m in two brackets- ‘new girl’ and ‘sexy Latina’.” 

Betty is a little concerned Veronica might whip out a lighter and set the book on fire, so she snaps it shut. “Their names are in here. This is all the proof we need.”

“Proof,” snaps Veronica, “it’s fucking sick, is what it is. I’m not an- an object to be… listed like some goddamn mail order catalogue.” She’s so angry she can’t say much more than that, and Betty wishes she had the crackling rage of a girl like Veronica, who makes anger powerful instead of pitiful. When she raises her voice you don’t feel sorry for her or roll your eyes, you flinch away.

“Let’s just go,” says Ethel, who looks a bit nauseous, probably because she’s imagining how many guys have read her name in that book. Ethel Muggs, Fat Slut, Seven Points. Betty thinks if she found her own name in it, she’d puke. Just the idea of people thinking about you like a… trophy, not a person with thoughts or feelings, just a hole to stick their junk in.

Betty feels a sudden hot surge of rage, and glances over at Jughead and Kevin. “We should have just stolen his tires,” Kevin says then. “Betty’s good with cars.”

“Not that good,” Betty mutters, but looking at Chuck’s locker, frowns. “I have an idea, though.”

They start a small fire in a trash can at the far end of the football field, after creeping out of the school the way they came in. In goes Chuck’s jersey and pants and his cleats and his shoulder pads and all his gear, even the extra hoodie he left in his gym locker. Betty turns the notebook over in her hands as the smell of burning rubber and polyester fills the air, and then says, “Let’s burn this too. I’ll take pictures of everything first.”

She does just that, and Veronica and Ethel take turns ripping pages out and tossing them into their trash can fire. Jughead hasn’t said a word the entire time, although he lent them his lighter; he just hangs back with his usual unreadable stare, hands in his pockets. Kevin starts to film a snap video, and Betty swats him on the shoulder. “What if someone sees it?”

“That’s the point,” Kevin snorts, but stops the recording. “I don’t think it’s gonna take Chuck long to figure out who might have it out for him.”

“There were eighteen names in the book,” Jughead says. “Seems like he’s kind of a got a list.”

“Still,” says Betty, but she feels guilty about feeling guilty about this. It’s not that she feels bad for Chuck, she just doesn’t want to get in trouble or be the center of some giant high school scandal. Chuck has a lot of friends, and months left before he graduates. Of course she wants to do the right thing, but this isn’t going to make her any new friends.

When the fire burns down, they go their separate ways. Veronica offers to give Betty a ride, but Betty doesn’t want to risk her parents hearing an Uber pull up in front of the house, so she declines. Kevin and Ethel live close to one another, so they set off behind the school, talking almost amiably. 

“I’ll walk you home,” says Jughead, not in a particularly forceful way, but not as long-suffering as Betty had expected either.

“You shouldn’t,” she says, reddening, “it’s way out of your way.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, and glances away, “but there’s a murderer on the loose, so safety in numbers, right?” 

She smiles awkwardly at that, and they see off Veronica into her summoned ride before heading for Betty’s neighborhood. “Thanks for the help,” she tells him, since he doesn’t seem intent on starting any conversation. 

He has long, loping strides and walks sort of… not drooped, but kind of slouched, like he’s not in any particular hurry. Which is good, because he’s a lot taller than her and she’d have a hard time keeping up if he wanted to fast walk.

“Good call, letting them burn it,” he says after a moment. “They needed that. Chuck really fucked with their heads. Guys like him get off on that shit. The attention. Knowing they got to someone.”

This is almost a speech, for Jughead. 

“I guess so,” says Betty, and then adds, “if I was a guy, I’d- I’d kick the crap out of him.” It sounds stupid and childish as soon as it’s out of her mouth.

“My dad probably knows some guys who would do it for drug money.” She can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. 

He then adds, “People have let Chuck get away with shit all his life ‘cause he’s smart and good-looking and from a nice family. But you’re not letting him get away with it this time. So…,” he shrugs again. He’s always shrugging, always non-committal. It’s kind of endearing and frustrating at the same time.

“Good job, Betty,” Betty intones more dryly than she meant to.

He cracks a rare smile as they turn onto her street. “Good job, Betty.”

She’s more pleased than she should be at his praise. “Thanks.”


	19. Chapter 19

Archie has just got back from taking Vegas for a walk when Dad’s truck pulls up. They’ve barely spoken to each other all week, despite Dad’s increasingly awkward attempts to ‘make peace’ over the grounding thing. Archie just doesn’t want Dad to find out he snuck out two nights this week to watch Josie practice, since Dad would probably go nuclear if he found that out. Maybe it’s a parental control thing. 

As in, Archie isn’t a little kid who can be put in time out anymore, and Dad is too busy with work to be home watching over him, making sure he’s not disobeying his own grounding. So it’s kind of like Archie is doing Dad a favor, even being sullen about it, since that implies that Dad’s punishments actually work. 

Which, they really don’t. It’s not that he hates his father or even really resents him, he just… Dad can’t seem to get over the fact that Archie isn’t ‘his little buddy’ anymore, a clone following him around with his toy dump trucks and a football. He’s growing up, and Dad can’t handle it- besides, Dad sure as hell didn’t have curfews when he was a teenager. He was down by the river smoking weed under the bridge with FP Jones, for chrissake. 

Archie figures he’s an angel in comparison, sneaking out not to smoke or party or even have sex, but to play music with a couple girls. And Josie made it perfectly clear he wasn’t allowed to say shit during practices, because ‘he can’t speak to their experience’. Which, fine, she’s right, sort of, but it’s not as if Josie’s writing these in-depth songs about bigotry and oppression.

He knows he’s being petty. Josie McCoy is a much better singer than he’ll ever be, and Valerie is a kick-ass guitarist. Their music is too poppy (and almost exclusively about girl drama and boyfriends) for his tastes, but that doesn’t mean they’re not talented. He’s not an idiot. They probably are going places- Josie already has a leg up because her dad’s in the industry- whereas he’s going… nowhere. 

He goes into the house as Dad shuts off the engine. Dad comes in while he’s taking off Vegas’ leash, kicking off his work boots at the door. He has a stack of take-out containers in his arms. “Hungry?” he asks. “I stopped by that Taste of Riverdale thing, picked up some food. There’s garlic bread. Know you like that.”

Archie shrugs passively, although he does like garlic bread. A lot. He shuffles sweatily over to the kitchen counter to pick through the food, which is still warm. When Mom still lived with them they had dinner together almost every night, but that pretty much stopped after she moved to Chicago. Dad’s not that great of a cook, and he’s been working late a lot. Sometimes Archie just splits the cost of a pizza with Betty, whose parents are also rarely home in time for dinner.

“Saw one of your teachers there,” Dad continues, apparently determined to keep the conversation going. “The young one- Ms. Grundy.”

Archie stiffens without looking up, as he robotically shovels food onto a plate. He makes a grunt of acknowledgement after a moment, mind racing. Does Dad know? Is he feeling him out to see how he’ll react? Did he say anything to Ms. Grundy? Did she say anything to him? Why is he telling Archie this?

“We talked about you,” Dad says. “She thinks you have some real talent. Sang your praises, kid. Said you were a bit of a late bloomer, talent wise, but she thinks if you work at it… it could really go somewhere.”

Archie looks up at his father at that. Dad looks almost… regretful? He can’t place his expression. He’s not mad or worried, so he can’t know. But why would Geraldine tell him all that in the first place? Was she just trying to make sure Dad didn’t start to suspect anything, or did she really mean it? He wants to believe she meant it. 

“That was nice of her,” he says lamely. “She’s really talented. She almost got into Juilliard.”

“I thought she was a college kid at first glance,” Dad snorts, “I swear, they get younger and younger, Arch. Back in your old man’s day there wasn’t a teacher under fifty at that school. I’m almost old enough to be her father.”

The thought makes Archie uncomfortable. “I guess.”

“Hey.” Dad takes a step closer and puts a hand on Archie’s shoulder. “Arch, I know we’ve been… upset with each other lately. I know you feel like I don’t support you, like I’m only interested in your sports, and not your music. I just… I hope you know I love you for who you are, Archie, not what you do in life.” 

He hesitates. “I just didn’t want you to pin all your hopes and dreams on a music career and… and miss out on a lot of other things. You’re only fifteen, bud. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. There’s no rush. But if music makes you happy, then I want to be there for you, okay? Look, I picked up some stuff on my way home. I was thinking… how about we soundproof the garage, so you can practice in there?”

Archie jerks away. “Are you serious? Where’ll you put the truck?”

Dad shrugs. “It’ll be fine in the driveway, truck’s seen better days. Now listen, you’re still grounded but… might as well be productive if you’re gonna be sitting at home. How about it?”

He really is being genuine, and Archie feels a flash of guilt. Dad does care about him, and just wants ‘what’s best for him’, he knows that. He has a good dad, which is more than a lot of people can say, and he shouldn’t be lying and disrespecting his father like this. He knows that. He just- he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he can’t just get along with his dad anymore. Maybe it’s all hormones or something. 

“Okay,” he says, biting into a hunk of garlic bread. “Sure. That sounds good, Dad. Thanks.” 

This is clearly Dad’s peace offering, and Archie’s not spiteful enough to spit on it. He and Dad spend the rest of the night working on the garage, before Archie turns in at ten to finish his Algebra homework. He’s dreading the mid-quarter reports that will come up sooner or later, because his grades so far suck, but Dad doesn’t need to know that yet. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

Of course, school the next morning is in a meltdown mode. Betty, Veronica, and Chuck Clayton are in Weatherbee’s office, the football team, both varsity and junior varsity, is in an uproar, and pictures of Chuck’s trashed car and locker are circulating everywhere. Archie wants nothing to do with the entire thing, but he did kind of sort of know about the ‘playbook’ (although he’s never so much as seen it, and he didn’t really believe the rumors of it, because who’d be stupid enough to pull something like that?). 

Chuck was, apparently. 

“If Chuck gets kicked off the team,” Reggie says loudly, standing by Archie’s locker in between first and second period, “it’s gonna be your fucking head, Andrews.”

Moose doesn’t look thrilled either, but he’s not saying anything.

“Why?” Archie asks tiredly. He’s not really interested in getting into another fist fight with Reggie at the moment. His black eye only finally faded a couple days ago.

“Because you’re best friends forever with Betty Cooper, and everyone knows she and that Lodge bitch-,”

“Reggie, why the fuck do you even care?” Archie snaps, before Reggie can continue to call Veronica a bitch and really piss him off. Veronica kind of is a bitch, but she’s also his friend, so... “Were you in the book?”

“No,” says Reggie, looking almost affronted, “I get as much pussy as anyone else with a 10 inch dick, Andrews, trust me, but I don’t gotta keep a numbered diary about it. Fucking weird.”

That’s Reggie, women’s rights advocate. He’ll call girls bitches and sluts, but he’s not going to tell the whole school about what they did with him. That’s ‘gay’. At least he’s sort of honest in that regard. A real knight in shining armor. 

“But we can’t lose our team captain,” Reggie continues sharply. “Okay? You gotta stand with the team, dude. No matter what.”

“If they kick Chuck off, you’ll be captain,” Moose reminds him, and Reggie brightens momentarily, before his face falls, obviously struggling with this crisis of conscience. 

“I’ll be captain either way, once Chuck graduates. I’m telling you, Andrews, next year is gonna be All Mantle, and-,”

But Archie is already walking away, ignoring the occasional dirty look tossed his way by fellow athletes. He spots Jughead coming out of the Blue and Gold’s office, and flags him down. Jughead looks worried about something, although that’s no exactly new for him. 

“What’s wrong, dude?”

Jughead glances around and sighs, before moving over to the side of a trophy case with Archie. “Look. I’m technically not supposed to be telling you this, journalistic integrity, but fuck that. We’re friends. Dilton Doiley just came in and told me and Betty that he saw Grundy’s car parked near the river on the 4th.”

“What?” Archie whispers in shock.

“Yeah,” says Jughead flatly. “Now, he’s not gonna tell anyone else that shit, because we have dirt on him- don’t ask- but look, man. It looks pretty fucking bad. Now Betty knows you and her were both down there, and she’s freaking out-,”

“I- can’t you tell Betty-,” 

Tell Betty what, Archie doesn’t know. Jughead’s right. It does look bad. Only a few people know it, but it’s not that hard to put two and two together. He claims to have been down by the river on that morning, and now, so was Geraldine. He never should have gone to the cops. She was right. It was too risky. If Betty finds out, her parents will find out, and so will Dad, and the entire town. And then he’s fucked. 

He closes and opens his mouth like a fish. Jughead looks less than impressed, and has a general aura of ‘you brought this all on yourself’. “Also,” Jughead snaps, “now I got half the goddamn school baying for my blood because people are starting to find out about the Chuck thing. So it’s not looking good for either of us.”

Archie is about to reassure him that he’ll look out for him, when there’s the sound of familiar footfall. “Archie?” Ms. Grundy hovers nervously a few feet away. “Can I speak to you?”

Jughead’s mouth becomes a thin line of displeasure, and his eyes go dark and hard. Archie shoots him a warning look- Geraldine doesn’t know that Jughead knows- and walks over to her, following her down the hall and down a flight of stairs to her office. 

Once they’re safely inside, Archie shuts the door behind them. “My dad told me about talking to you last night,” he says, before she can speak.

She nods. “I… I thought you could use someone in your corner, Archie. I know it’s been hard for you, lately, and I know you feel like I’ve… abandoned you.” She draws closer to him, takes his hand in hers. It’s been so long since they’ve touched that Archie feels an almost electric, static shock.

He has to tell her that Dilton saw her car. He has to tell her that they need to stay far away from each other, that it’s really too risky now, that she was right, it can’t work, but- it’s just been so long since he touched anyone, and he’s still clinging to the hope that this will all blow over, that he can convince Betty… So he doesn’t say anything. Instead he moves closer, still clutching her hand like a life line, and kisses her.

She kisses him back, passionately, and then breaks away for a moment. Archie’s heart sinks, but she just walks over to the door, and locks it. He smiles, slowly and hesitantly, as she turns back to him like a shy schoolgirl and takes off her glasses. “I have missed you,” Geraldine says throatily. “Really, Archie.”

“Me too,” he says. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest it physically hurts. “I love you.” It slips out without notice.

Something shifts on her face, but she just smiles. “I love you too, honey.”

A floor above them, the hallway breaks into yells and jeers as Coach Clayton escorts Chuck and a few other football players out of the office, their letterman jackets in their hands, but Archie’s too far gone to notice the noise. All he can hear is Ms. Grundy’s breathing as she pulls off her sweater, and he undoes his belt, feeling a lurch in his stomach like a roller coaster barreling down the tracks.


	20. Chapter 20

Veronica has probably ruined her social life before it even began, but on the plus side, she has a milkshake on the house (aka on Mom) right now. It’s barely been two days since the Chuck Incident, and she and Betty are still riding out the shockwave. 

The short version of it is that Chuck is suspended for the rest of the month and along with his compatriots, permanently banned from the football team, which also means he’s losing his athletic scholarship. 

Weatherbee suspects her, Betty, and Jughead (Ethel and Kevin seem far too innocent, apparently) but has exactly zero evidence that they were responsible for the break-in and vandalism, and thus can’t punish any of them for it. 

Veronica would be considerably more smug about it were the majority of varsity and junior varsity football not out for blood. She and Betty have both gotten texts, phone calls, DMs, and snaps that mostly boil down to ‘you sluts/cunts/whores/bitches will pay for this’, and Jughead skipped school today. 

While the athletes are openly antagonistic, there is some additional judgment from other students- people either think they took it too far or that it was all in good fun, and Chuck didn’t deserve to have ‘his life ruined’ over a ‘stupid joke’.

First of all, despite the teenage propensity for melodrama, Chuck’s life is far from ruined; he’s not facing criminal charges, he’s not expelled, the only thing that’s really been taken away from him is football, and if he was more passionate about the sport maybe he’d have spent more time in the gym and less time slutshaming innocent high schoolers.

Veronica doesn’t feel the slightest hint of regret or shame over how things played out. Betty is another story; her parents have gotten wind that she (may) have had something to do with the Chuck situation, and that’s only adding to her anxiety about the whole thing. Veronica has had to talk her out of eating lunch in the girls bathroom several times now. 

“You have to calm down,” she tells Betty, not for the first time, as they sit in Pop’s. The diner is busy, filled with students, some of whom are glaring daggers at them. But two girls came over to ‘congratulate’ them when they first sat down, so that’s something. “It will all blow over by this time next week.”

“People are writing things on my locker,” Betty snaps. “I’m getting anonymous texts! This is not a ‘calm’ situation, Veronica! People are acting like we murdered someone!”

“We did murder someone,” Veronica delicately sips her milkshake, “Chuck’s reputation. Do you think anyone is ever going to look at his genitals without laughing again, after that story you and Jughead published?”

Betty flushes scarlet, pushing around the fries on her plate. “I didn’t say anything about-,”

“Metaphorically speaking,” Veronica snorts, “it was a total castration. Yeah, he might have some apologists, but everybody knows what a sleazy douchebag he really is, even his own dad.”

Betty says nothing, glancing worriedly out into the growing dusk as if expecting the police to burst in at any moment and arrest them. Maybe it’s not just the stress of the Chuck thing. Maybe something else is going on. They’re friends- this week has guaranteed that, if it wasn’t set in stone already, but Veronica doesn’t know Betty well enough to even attempt to pry.

The door near their booth swings open, and Veronica cranes her neck around to see Jughead storm into the diner- or as near to storm as someone like Jughead can. Hands in his pockets, shoulder slouched, neck bent, he makes a beeline for their table and sidles into the seat beside Betty, who scoots over in surprise.

“Oh my god,” says Veronica. “What happened to your nose?”

“It’s bleeding,” Jughead replies thickly, grabbing the napkins offered by Betty and tilting his head back as he staunches the flow. “Car door.”

“You got hit in the face with a car door?”

“I think Chuck’s handing out fliers with my face and name to his friends,” Jughead sneers sarcastically without really looking at her, still dabbing at his face. “I was going to see Mayor McCoy, to see if she got my email.”

“About what?” Betty asks.

Jughead crumples the bloody napkins up in his hand. “Are you serious? They’re closing the Twilight Drive-In. The last showing is tonight. Someone bought the land for ‘development’.” His view of ‘development’ is palpable.

“You work there, right?” Betty sounds guilty; she’s guilty about everything, Veronica thinks, even things she has no control over. She might as well be Catholic.

“I did. Now it’s going to be a strip mall, or condos,” he wipes at his mouth with his jacket sleeve. “Completely soulless, just like the rest of this fucking town.”

Veronica doesn’t know about that. Riverdale certainly has... character. She’ll give it that. In some regards it puts East Village and Brooklyn to shame. “Well, was it making any money?” 

She can’t help that Daddy raised a capitalist (and a pragmatist). You have to start living in the real world at some point. Maybe it makes her a heartless rich bitch, but at least she’s aware, rather than prancing around as if money was just a figment of poor people’s imagination.

Jughead looks at her as if he’d like to throw something at that, and she gives a tiny shrug.

“It… my mom- the drive-in has always had a lot of… crime,” Betty says quietly, looking down at her half-eaten burger. “Um, drugs, and stuff. Some kids got held up with a gun there during a movie last year.”

“Right, and bulldozing it is going to make heroin and cocaine trade plummet,” Jughead scowls. “That’s just their bullshit excuse. It was a- a _haven_ for a lot of people, not just- criminals and gang members. What about the film enthusiasts? Or the classic car shows in the summer?”

Betty looks stung, and Veronica tries to give him a warning look. Now is not the time to take everything so personally. But for Jughead, this clearly is personal. Either he’s just a massive film and history buff who loves his job working concessions in a dilapidated shack, or he has some other connection to the Twilight.

He looks on the verge of further impassioned ranting, which is at least more interesting than his usual muttering and dry wit, but he seems to at last take notice of Betty’s subdued demeanor and dials it down a notch. “You guys should come tonight,” he says stiffly. “We’re showing _Rebel Without a Cause_.”

“James Dean still does it for me,” Veronica comments. “I’ll be there, Jones.” She hesitates. Jughead is such a lanky, skinny thing. “Are you hungry? I definitely owe you a burger or something for helping us out.”

He shifts uneasily in his seat, but doesn’t seem overtly offended, which she’d been afraid of. “Uh- don’t worry about it.” He looks like he wants to talk to Betty about something, but isn’t sure how to phrase it. Veronica decides to be merciful.

“I’m going up to pay, then,” she says breezily. “My mom’s about to get off work, so I’ll ride home with her. Are you coming to the movies tonight, Betty?”

Betty mumbles something about not feeling so good and maybe not. Veronica clicks over to the counter in her heels, and sighs internally when she realizes she’s standing just behind Cheryl. “Try to resist the temptation to pocket a few bills,” Cheryl is telling Veronica’s mother condescendingly, tapped her foot. “I might be wearing falsies, but I’m not blind.”

Mom just smiles thinly as she works the register, and speaks before Veronica can tap Cheryl on the shoulder and put her in her place. “One day when you’re a little older and a little wiser, Cheryl, you’ll start to grasp the difference between having money and having class.”

Cheryl just scowls and sweeps away from the register, looking Veronica up and down. Apparently any brownie points for comforting her during the pep rally have long since dissipated. Good. Veronica likes hating Cheryl without feeling guilty about her dead brother and terrible home life. 

“Wow, Veronica, I didn’t realize mommy dearest’s definition of class involved cozying up with Southside Serpents during her smoke breaks. What a look for the Lodges- I bet the gossip mags down in the city would love this!” With that, she stalks out, painfully alone, Veronica notes- her cronies seem to have permanently ditched her.

Veronica glances back at Mom with a frown. “What is she talking about?”

Mom just shrugs, but her gaze momentarily flickers away. She’s about to lie, Veronica instinctively knows it. It might have been a one-off comment by Cheryl, but it has some grain of truth to it, because Mom is now on guard. “Nonsense, mija. Complete and utter nonsense. And don’t hand me that card- Pop’ll take this out of my pay.”

“Mom,” Veronica rolls her eyes, but her mother is already walking out from behind the counter, fussing with her thick, dark hair pulled back in an unattractive ponytail. Her mother is an attractive woman, with alluring eyes and high cheekbones, but the pale yellow uniform isn’t doing her any wonders. She squeezes Veronica’s shoulder. “Come on, I’m done for the evening. Let’s go home.”

When they get back to the apartment, Veronica looks over her options for tonight’s outfit while Mom changes hurriedly out of her uniform, eager to be back in her diamond earrings and pearls. “You’re not smoking, Mom, are you?” Veronica calls half-kiddingly into the hallway, but is greeted with silence.

She steps into the doorway of her room, regarding the glimpse of her mother’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. Mom’s a good liar, but her expression says it all. “Only a little, Ronnie. You know the stress…”

Mom smoked cigarettes when Veronica was little; she picked it up in high school and just barely managed to shake it for the duration of her pregnancy, then started right back up. Never in the house- Daddy would have never allowed it, although he smoked plenty of cigars in his study, during meetings, and after dinner- but Veronica once got caught playing with her mother’s silver lighter when she was ten. 

Daddy was furious, and had a massive fight with Mom before forcing her to put her last pack down the garbage disposal in the kitchen while he watched, arms folded across his chest like an angry father. ‘It’s my body, Hiram,” Veronica distinctly remembers Mom snapping, “if I need something to take the edge off-,”

“You’re a Lodge, Hermione, not a hooker,” Daddy had coldly cut her off. “You buy those things with my money, smoke them in front of MY daughter- stick to cocktails.”

Mom had flushed red and gone all quiet and frazzled, like a scolded little girl, mortified in front of her own daughter. She hadn’t smoked again after that… until now. Veronica doesn’t care about cigarettes being ‘trashy’- she just doesn’t want Mom to get lung cancer or something.

“Daddy’d be furious, Mom.” She knows she sounds like a little girl, but she can’t help it. Hiram Lodge’s word was always law. The only law. What he said, went. Veronica’s mother raised her to be a strong, assertive woman, but with Daddy, all that went by the wayside. He said ‘jump’, Mom said ‘how high’, for all her talk of being independent and not letting men put you in a corner.

“What your father doesn’t know won’t hurt him, mija,” Mom says, without looking back at Veronica, who rolls her eyes in annoyance and goes to text Kevin. Since Betty’s going to be a no-show, he’s her only hope.

She and Kevin arrive at the Twilight fashionably late for the 9:00 PM showing, and find themselves relegated to the back row due to taking Kevin’s dad’s truck. Which, Kevin seems to have gotten his learners permit suspiciously fast for someone who only turned sixteen a week or so ago, and he’s probably not even legally allowed to be driving after dark without an adult, but being the sheriff’s son has to have some tangible perks, Veronica supposes.

Unfortunately, the back row is full of… truck people. Veronica has never gotten along with truck people. They appear to be a mixture of older jocks and… Southsiders, since some of them seem completely unfamiliar, and Kevin keeps glancing over nervously whenever they get too rowdy. Most of them look barely out of their teens, all in varying shades of grungy black and grey, combat boots and leather jackets and varying hairstyles like something out of a 90s industrial metal concert. 

“This is why this place has gone to the dogs,” Kevin says snidely, while live tweeting about it, but twenty minutes into the movie, Veronica has had enough. How is she supposed to fantasize about being in James Dean’s tender loving embrace with trailer trash mere feet away, drunkenly snickering?

She stands up in the bed of the truck, ignoring Kevin’s ‘your funeral’ look, and narrows her eyes at the Serpents. “Either you shut the hell up, or we see exactly how much damage a Louis Vuitton heel does to a snake’s head,” she snarls. Yes, she’s on a bit of an avenging angel roll this week, but so far, she’s seen results, hasn’t she?

The Serpents momentarily quiet with a chorus of juvenile ‘oohs’ before one of them hurls a beer bottle roughly in the direction of the Keller vehicle. It shatter harmlessly on the ground, but Veronica sits down anyways. She made her point, and she doesn’t need to start the weekend with a head wound. “Well, that went well,” says Kevin, and she just huffs and crosses her arm, settling back into the old quilt he brought. “We’re out of popcorn.”

He looks at her drolly for a moment before muttering, “As you wish, Your Majesty,” and scrambling down from the truck bed himself. Veronica peers after him as he jogs over towards the concession stand where Jughead and a few other sour-faced teens are working, and then stiffens in concern when she notices one of the Serpents head off in the same direction.

Yes, it’s possible that Joe Blow over there just wants some more gummy worms, but gangs, soft gay boys in button-down shirts and boat shoes like Kevin… they don’t exactly mix, do they? With some difficulty, wishing she hadn’t worn a skirt, she gets down from the truck herself, wincing as her heels sink into the mud, and sets off after them. At least she had the good sense to bring her pepper spray.

By the time she makes it over to concessions, neither Kevin nor the Serpent guy who was following him are anywhere to be seen. Veronica tries to ignore the growing concern in her gut, and walks quickly around the building to the parking lot. How far could they have gone? It’s another misty night, and she wraps her arms around her thin faux-leather jacket, quickening her pace.

And then grinds to a halt, because Kevin and the Serpent are up against a chain link fence… and seem to be very mutually making out. Unsure of what to do, Veronica just stops and stares; they’re both oblivious, and then after a few stunned moments, wheels away on her heel. Okay. Well. She had no idea Kevin had a thing for ragged jeans and long hair. ‘Gone to the dogs’ indeed.

She takes the long way around to get back to the truck, since Kevin obviously won’t be rejoining her any time soon, and it looks like she’ll be the one buying the popcorn, until she spots a familiar looking car. Isn’t that Archie’s dad’s truck? He drives a beat-up, red 1989 Dodge Ram, as Betty once recited to her. She had no idea Mr. Andrews was into James Dean films. The night just keeps getting weirder.

Veronica gets a bit closer, to either say hello to Archie if he is here with his dad, they do seem kind of close, or…. Well, she doesn’t know what, because Mr. Andrews is not here with his son, but with some woman, who walks over to the truck, purse in hand, before climbing inside. Veronica can’t really judge the man; Archie’s parents are separated, as far as she can tell, if not already divorced, but then- 

She recognizes the purse. Wouldn’t mistake them anywhere. Not many Riverdale women have, or ever had, the money for Hermes. Veronica watches with a mixture of shock, horror, and outrage, as her mom locks lips with Fred Andrew like a pair of hormonal teens on their first date, and then her feelings abruptly solidify into something hard and cold, and she almost unconsciously pulls out her phone and snaps a picture. In the background of the photo, you can just make out the nearby Serpents, who oddly enough, all seem to have been watching Hermione Lodge, rather than the film, as she walked away from them... and over to the truck. 

Then she forgets all about the popcorn and Kevin and the stupid movie- she’d bulldoze the entire place herself, at this moment, given the opportunity, and calls an Uber. At home, she waits up, furious, until less than an hour later (they must have called it an early night) Mom walks in, looking surprised. “Ronnie? What’s wrong?”

“A lot,” Veronica says tightly. “What are you doing with the Serpents, Mom? And what are you doing with Mr. Andrews? You promised no more lies, after the trial. You PROMISED.” Her voice rises slightly, and she hates how shrill and unsteady she sounds.

“ _Mija_ ,” Mom doesn’t seem to know where to look. She runs a hand through her hair. “Veronica, honey… Fred is an old friend from my high school days. If you saw us there together- we were just catching up. That’s it. He’s always been kind to me. And as for the Serpents… Veronica, I understand that you think you’re an adult now, but you’re still a child. And my business-,”

Veronica holds up her phone, the photo on full display. Mom’s eyes go wide, a rare sight. “Mom,” she snaps. “Don’t. Don’t even start. I’m sick of you and Dad hiding things from me, lying to me. Even now, you’re still- just tell me what’s going on! Or I make sure Dad hears about this.”

Mom looks as if she’s been slapped, before she schools her expression into one of cool disdain. They’ve been walking on eggshells around each other for so long; ‘we Lodge women have to stick together!’ but now the claws are out once more. Just like old times. “Veronica. Don’t be absurd. Your father is in prison.”

“I haven’t visited in a while,” Veronica threatens. “And I bet he’d love to hear all about your new life here. New job, new friends… new men…”

It’s a low, dirty trick, threatening Mom with Daddy’s jealous rage. But she’s just- she feels so betrayed, and she knows she shouldn’t, but she’d- Mom had seemed so proud of her, after the Chuck thing, and now- she’s screwing around with Archie’s dad, and apparently in contact with gangbangers.

Mom closes her eyes for a moment, and massages her brow, before reciting in a flat voice, “Your father is buying the drive-in property, Veronica. He- we- hired the Serpents to… help persuade the mayor that business wasn’t worth the hassle. Obviously, it worked. This is a very important deal for us. This is about helping your father’s brand, in the long run, Veronica. He’s not going to be in prison forever-,”

“So much for a new start,” Veronica scoffs, glancing around the apartment sitting room wildly. It still looks cheap and empty, and sterile. Just like this family. “What, ripping off a bunch of people in the city wasn’t enough? Daddy had to have his slice of American pie and eat it, too?”

“Don’t talk about your father like that,” Mom snaps suddenly, pointing a manicured nail in her direction. “Veronica, this is business. This is the real world, _mija_ , not some morality tale. Your father is looking out for more than just our finances. He’s doing all of this for us. The least you could do is show some semblance of gratitude-”

“Gratitude? Mom, he’s a convicted criminal! Let’s just admit it once and for all!”

“He is your FATHER,” Mom yells, really yells, she’s not classy furious, she’s angry, loud, raging, voice hoarse and raw. “Your FATHER, Veronica. You have lived a very, very charmed life. Everything you ever wanted- the best schools, best clothes, the best friends, all the shopping and parties and freedom a girl could want- I had NONE of that when I was your age. Your father single-handedly turned old money into new money. We owe him _everything_.”

“Things,” Veronica enunciates furiously. “They were things, Mom. I never had a real friend in my entire life until we moved here, I never-,” she doesn’t even know how to vocalize it. She loved her life. Or, she thought she did. She doesn’t know, it’s so confusing, it’s just- she thought it’d be different here. She really had started to believe it. But it’s the same old bullshit. Mom’s the same, Daddy’s the same, it’s all the same. 

Mom just shakes her head. “Go to bed, Veronica. We’ll discuss this more in the morning.”

Veronica makes sure to slam the bedroom door hard enough that it rattles in the frame on her way in.


	21. Chapter 21

Betty watches Veronica leave with her mother before turning back to Jughead, who is regarding her warily. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?” She feels terrible. He was already a target for guys like Chuck and Reggie before, and now it must be about ten times worse. He has dried blood all over his upper lip. Betty resists the urge to pick at it with a napkin or something. 

“I’m fine,” he says, studying the cracks in the table. “I get snacks at concessions for free.”

“You can’t live off popcorn and hotdogs.” It should be funny, but she can’t summon up a smile at the moment.

“Betty,” he sighs, “look… Grundy…”

“Just tell me if they were there together,” Betty says in a low, flat voice, trying to keep her expression composed and professional but failing miserably. “Alright? I just-,”

“I already… I’ve talked to him about it,” Jughead says, picking at the dried blood under his nose. “He just… I think he was kind of in a bad place this summer, and she-,”

“Are they having sex?” Betty snaps. “Jughead! I mean- she’s a teacher! It’s illegal!”

“Don’t you think I told him that?” he argues. “He doesn’t give a shit, Betty, and neither does she. She got under his skin somehow. I think he thinks… well, he thinks she really… understands him. Cares about him.”

“She’s having sex with a fifteen year old!” Betty fights to keep her voice down.

“No shit,” says Jughead. “I’m the one who got him to go to the sheriff in the first place, just to tell them about the gunshot. He was trying to cover both their asses. And now…”

“I don’t care about the gunshot anymore,” Betty retorts, “I care about my friend being- I don’t know, seduced by his music teacher! It’s disgusting. She should be in prison.”

“Come on,” Jughead snorts, “even if we ratted them out, he’d never admit to any of it. And even if he did- she’d get off with a slap on the wrist, Betty. She’s a pretty blonde woman in her twenties. She wears fucking cardigans, for chrissake. If she was some creepy old guy? It’d be straight to pedo prison.”

He’s right, as much as Betty doesn’t want to admit it. She could report it right now, send Mom on the warpath- Mom, who refused to ever even hire a babysitter for her and Polly, she’s so paranoid about something happening to them- but all it would do would alienate Archie even further, and Grundy would probably get off easy. 

But if Archie can’t be talked out of getting away from her… 

“Hey,” Jughead seems to have debated taking her arm or hand but has settled for awkwardly rapping on the table to get her attention. “Betty… she’s gotta be pretty paranoid, right? Especially with the sheriff sniffing around. Maybe we just… let it run its course, you know? I guarantee you she’ll break it off with him sooner or later. Probably sooner. She might… like him, but she’s much more concerned with looking out for herself. If it seems like they might get caught, she’ll cut and run.”

“He’s being abused,” Betty is shocked by how her voice thickens around the lump in her throat. “I- I mean, she’s raping him, Jughead. He can’t… he’s just a kid, he doesn’t know what…”

“I know,” Jughead says shortly. “But I don’t- we don’t want to lose him too, right? If you come at him guns blazing, he’s going to get defensive, pull away, and… I don’t know, even if he stops being with her… he could just wind up with someone even worse.”

Car headlights flash outside the diner window, and Betty squints into the parking lot. “Crap. It’s my mom.” She jumps up, grabbing her purse. “I… sorry, but I don’t think I can come to the drive-in tonight, Jug.” She’s never called him Jug before, but it slipped out naturally. They must be friends now, or at least something approaching it. They’ve both got Archie to worry about.

“No, I get it,” he licks his lips nervously, it seems to her. “Have a good weekend.”

“You too. If- just stay home, maybe,” she tells him, trying not to sound like a scolding mother, “if people are giving you a hard time.”

He smiles thinly. “I like the fresh air.”

Betty hurries outside after leaving a tip, and jogs over to Mom’s car, slipping in the passenger seat. “Why in God’s name were you sitting with that boy?” Mom snaps as they pull out of the lot. 

“He works on the school newspaper with me.” Betty isn’t in the mood to have a drawn-out debate with Mom over who she hangs out with.

“A Jones, working on the newspaper?” Mom snorts. “Betty, I’m not even sure they can read.”

“Jughead’s really smart,” Betty mutters. “Smarter than me, probably.”

“No one is smarter than you, don’t be ridiculous,” Mom huffs. “Really, Betty, you know, I went to school with his father-,”

“Mom, you went to school with everyone’s parents! I don’t care!”

The car ride is silent after that.

Betty goes home, and while half the town is at the drive-in, googles Geraldine Grundy. What she finds is… well, what she doesn’t find is interesting. Any record of her online existence started a year ago. All her accounts, brand new. Any pictures of her online, very recent. No high school graduation, no mention of her in a college newspaper… nothing. She even searches her up on YouTube- she must have some videos up of her playing the cello, right? Nothing. 

Sure, some people don’t like to have any internet, but this is different. It’s as if she materialized out of thin air. 

It’s helpful that Grundy drives a VW Bug, because it’s very easy to find in a parking lot. Specifically, the high school parking lot; she must be inside on a Saturday grading papers or… having sex with Betty’s childhood best friend. Betty knows she’s taking this whole thing very personally. Legally, it’s rape, but it’s not as if Archie were physically forced into it. He wants to have sex with… his teacher. She’s disgusted by the entire thing, but she also knows a small, guilty part of her is furious with him.

She shouldn’t be, it’s not fair- he’s the victim here. He’s obviously being manipulated and exploited by someone older and (unfortunately) wiser. Grundy doesn’t actually care about him. If she did she’d be trying to help him, not just using him for her own sick desires. Maybe it makes her feel powerful, to know she has someone under her thumb like that. 

Betty doesn’t care. She’s positive if she saw Grundy right now, she’d probably try to kill her. How dare she. How dare she. Archie is kind and loyal and earnest. He deserves someone who appreciates him for more than just his good looks and pliable nature. Betty thought- well maybe part of her still thinks Archie deserves her, but- this isn’t about being jealous. She’s not jealous of the woman abusing her friend. She’s angry. 

Which gives her the much needed determination to wedge open Geraldine Grundy’s car window with a doorstop and a wire hanger. Dad showed her and Polly how to do this a few years ago, in case they ever needed to get into a car for some reason. Polly couldn’t have cared less, but Betty has been counting down the days until she can

The door unlocks, and Betty cautiously glances around before opening it. Compared to her nerves just a few days ago, breaking into the school, she feels almost unnaturally calm now, with no one to watch her back. Maybe it’s because she’s more angry about this, it feels more personal. 

Not that she wasn’t furious about what Chuck’s done, but Chuck hasn’t- Chuck didn’t abuse anyone- well, he did, sort of, but not in the way Grundy is abusing Archie. He’s an asshole and a scumbag, but writing horrible things about women and spreading lies isn’t on the same level as being an adult sleeping with and manipulating a minor.

Betty opens up the glovebox, and then freezes. There’s a gun. She doesn’t really know much about guns, so she has no idea what the exact model is, but it’s a small handgun. Carefully, she edges around it to pull out a ziplock bag. Inside the bag are… IDs. 

These say Jennifer Gibson, and display Grundy’s picture. She was born in 1991. At some point she lived in Connecticut. She pulls out her phone and slowly snaps pictures of everything in the glovebox; if she takes it, Grundy will know; nobody leaves a gun in their car without checking it regularly, right?

Betty slowly climbs out of the car, and locks and closes the door. What is she supposed to think? If Geraldine Grundy is really Jennifer Gibson… is she on the run? Is she some sort of criminal? Is she in a witness protection program? What’s the gun for? Did she have anything to do with Jason’s death? He played piano; could she have tutored him as well?

She should probably go to the police about this. She should probably tell Mom. But- first she has to talk to Archie, she has to. If this all blows up, she doesn’t want them to… Things haven’t been the same between them for a while now. She just needs to talk to him alone, just to… at least try to clear the air.

Archie is in his garage, strumming. He looks up guility at her, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Which did in fact happen once, when they were eight and he was over at her house, and Mom walked in to find him with his hand in the cookie jar. Of course, they were just little kids then, and Mom didn’t view Archie as a threat to Betty’s untainted-by-men-and-their-wicked-ways existence, so she just scolded him, rather than exploding. 

“Betty,” he says hastily, putting down his guitar. She hasn’t listened to him play it in ages. She misses that. 

She misses last spring, when freshmen year was winding down and they spent lazy, warm weekends in his or her backyard, when she was still bubbling over with eager hope that great things were just around the corner, when her braces were freshly off and she was running her tongue over her smooth teeth, and he was just starting his latest growth spurt, and still had a fleshy, childish quality to his freckled face. 

Before anyone was dead or having sex or sneaking out at night or getting drunk. When they were just meandering along through life, vaguely optimistic about their respective future, which seemed firmly intertwined. Archie-and-Betty, A-and-B. Yeah, maybe they never would have gotten together, but there was still- still the sense that anything was possible, that they could fall into whatever holes they liked and still clamber out, uninjured and laughing it off.

Now everything is so much more… impactful and intense and maybe part of it is hormones and depression and anxiety and the knowledge that their childhoods are in the home stretch, but- Betty just wishes they could have normal, silly conversations again, about stupid memes they’d found online and the video games Archie was playing and the books she loved- the summer before eighth grade she read, out-loud, the entire Harry Potter series to Archie over the course of two months, while they swung in a hammock his dad put up in the backyard. He wasn’t even just pretending to listen while he slept. He was genuinely enthralled. 

She’d like that back, but it’s probably too late, and now they’re nearly-adults, with nearly-adult problems. Or just… adult problems. “I know about you and Grundy,” she blurts out, and he looks stricken. Good. That means some part of him must realize how bad the whole thing is. “I’m not going to- I don’t want to fight about it, Archie. You’re my friend, my best friend, and I just- I just want you to be okay. I want us to be okay again. So… just look at these pictures. Please.”

He does. He says nothing for a few moments. Betty studies his face anxiously. For once Archie is not an open book; he barely even blinks. Then he turns around and slams his fist into the punching bag in the corner so hard that it bangs against an old filing cabinet. Betty jumps. Archie has only ever been aggressive on the football field, and even then, he’s the type to help an opponent up and shake hands after the game without any trace of resentment. 

This is different. She has never seen this sort of anger from him, and she can see it, roiling in his back and shoulders and chest, curled up at the base of his neck like a snake. Archie turns back to her, breathing very fast, and just says, “Betty, go home. I want to be alone.” It comes out thick and blurred together, like water gushing into a cup and quickly overflowing, knocking the cup over from the force of it.

She does not recognize the boy staring at her wildly. 

“Just go,” he says, and she does.


	22. Chapter 22

Archie only has to knock once. Geraldine- or is it Jennifer?- opens on the first knock, face pale and guarded, as if she’d been expecting this. Does she know Betty was in her car? Does she know he suspects anything? He stands in her doorway, shaking. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks hastily, but not before glancing up and down the secluded street. It’s a quiet Saturday evening. Archie has stewed over the pictures for four hours. He couldn’t sit there any longer. He has to know. He doesn’t care if it all blows up in his face. He doesn’t care anymore at all.

“Who are you?” he demands.

“What- what are you talking about, Archie?” she stammers, but doesn’t try to stop him from coming inside. In fact, she quickly shuts the door behind him. Her small house is bare and minimalistic. The paint is faded and the floors are bare. There are no pictures, no art, no nothing. He’s only ever been here once before, and that was at night, with the lights off. 

With the lights on, he sees just how empty the whole place really is. He pulls up the photos on his phone- Betty forwarded them to him, and shows her, hand trembling. Geraldine steps back, looking like she might faint. She presses her hands against the staircase bannister. “I- how did you get those?”

“Your name’s not really Geraldine,” he says hoarsely, “is it? It’s Jennifer. Jennifer Gibson. So what the fuck is going on, Jennifer? Why do you have a gun in your car? And who are you?” Jennifer. Jennifer is so… so average, so… normal. There must be a million blonde women in their twenties out there named Jennifer. When she was Geraldine, she was unusual, just mysterious enough to be alluring to him. Now she is… he doesn’t know.

“Archie,” she holds up a hand as if to ward him off. “I- it’s a long story-,”

“No,” he snaps, “no, you’ve been lying to me this whole time. You have! None of it- was any of it true? Did you even apply to Julliard?”

“Archie,” she says again, softly, but he shakes his head. 

“Stop. Just… just fucking stop, you’re…” He doesn’t know what she is. He feels acutely betrayed, like she wedged something sharp between his ribs. He thought… he thought she understood, thought she was different, thought she would always be honest with him, but- if none of it was ever true, then what… what does that mean for the rest of it? What they did?

“You’re right,” Jennifer Gibson drops the act; he sees the concern melt off her face, replaced with a brittle, bitter look. “Is that what you want to hear? You’re right. I did lie to you. To everyone. I wasn’t born Geraldine Grundy. I never almost made it into Julliard. I’m from Connecticut, Archie. I… I grew up with very controlling parents. When I didn’t… when I couldn’t live up to their expectations, they weren’t happy. So I ran away. With my highschool boyfriend. We got married, and I…,” she looks down at her hands. 

“I thought we could make it work. We didn’t. He was… he drank too much. And he got nasty, when he did. My life was just as much of a hell as it was when I was a kid. So I ran again, after he put me in the hospital. I got a divorce and changed my name, so he couldn’t track me down. And I just… got my first teaching job,” she shrugs, as if it was really that simple. “And tried not to look back.”

Archie stares at her, really stares at her, trying to see the woman beyond the glasses and the modest sweater and the wooly socks. She’s so… unassuming, he just… “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” he asks, trying to control his tone, keep it measured, but it’s a lost cause. He sounds as raw and wounded as he feels. “I… we talked all the time, I thought…” 

But they didn’t talk. Not really. They talked about him. His life. His problems with his parents, with this town, with everyone’s expectations. They never talked about her. Maybe that’s his fault. He didn’t ask. It was too perfect. She was comforting and reassuring and exciting and slightly dangerous all at the same time. It was like… he doesn’t know what it was like. It was just so different from anything else.

“Archie,” Jennifer looks back up at him, and her voice is almost dry. “You wouldn’t have understood. You still can’t. You don’t have the life experience-,”

And then it hits him. For the first time in… well, she’s never looked at him like this before. Like he was a kid. Like he didn’t know things, like he was to be pitied or sheltered or kept oblivious and happy. Before, she always… she treated him like an adult, but now he’s a kid. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have understood. He…

He feels a wave of nausea hit him. “I- did you fuck Jason too?” he blurts out.

Jennifer stares at him. “Did I…”

“I know you tutored him. Last year.”

She smiles as if shocked. “I… of course not, Archie, I-,”

“Did you?” he snaps, and her smile fades.

“No,” she says, shrilly, “I did not!” and he sees it flicker across her face. Almost like shame.

She didn’t. She didn’t fuck Jason, but she probably tried. Made some sort of overture, and he either ignored or rebuffed her. She reddens like a schoolgirl the longer the silence stretches on.

“If you think I had anything to do with- the sheriff already checked my alibi for July 10th, 11th, and 12th, I was at a music festival in the city-,” she continues, indignant, and he just… 

Archie doesn’t even know who he’s talking to right now, Geraldine or Jennifer, but does it matter? She didn’t care. He opened up to her, he told her things he’d never have told anyone else, and she… the entire time, she was just lying to him. She thought he was a stupid kid, all along. He sees it now. She didn’t trust him, not the way he trusted her, the way he… 

“I think you should get the hell out of here,” he says abruptly.

Jennifer freezes, regarding him closely, but not desperately. She’s only concerned with making sure he’s not about to become a threat to her. “Archie…”

“I mean it. You should- I can’t do this anymore. I really, really can’t.” His eyes are prickling, and he resists the urge to rub at them like a little kid. “You… you know what, Jennifer? Do what you want. But I’m… I’m done. Go find someone else to…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just turns and goes. She stays where she is, and doesn’t stop him from leaving. 

She is not in school on Monday, and the news that Grundy’s resigned spreads fairly quickly after that. Death in the family, illness, something like that. Archie knows why. It wasn’t out of respect for his wishes. She was afraid that if she hung around, he’d snap and tell Weatherbee, or worse, Sheriff Keller. He still could. But he won’t. He pictures Dad’s face if he ever found out, and that’s more than enough of a deterrent. 

He replays it over in his head again in again. Of course, now he has all sorts of things he wants to say, all the things you say after a nasty, sudden break-up, if you can even call it that… But there’s no one to say it to. Betty or Jug? He can’t deal with their obvious relief that she’s gone. He just can’t. They were right, of course they were, she was using him, he- he was an idiot, as always, stupid, innocent Archie, meandering into this and that, but-

He throws himself into football practice for the next few days, and when Valerie Brown texts him out of the blue, asking if he wants any help writing his sheet music, since Grundy’s up and left, he agrees without much of a second thought. Valerie is sixteen and pretty in a warm, quietly amused sort of way. He saw the way she’d occasionally glance over at him when he saw in on Josie’s rehearsals.

He knows where this is going, only Valerie actually seems intent on working on music for the first hour or so after school, while it pours rain outside and Dad naps upstairs. The garage is just cold enough that her arm presses up against his. Archie distantly focuses on a mole on her graceful neck. Valerie looks nothing like Jennifer, and she’d never be caught dead in a cardigan. She’s dryly sarcastic, like a slightly softer Veronica. All her smiles are the littlest bit crooked.

“Not bad,” she pronounces, after skimming his latest set of notations. “You pick this stuff up fast.”

“Yeah,” he says, not looking at the sheet, and doesn’t move back when she turns to him. Come on. It’s obvious. She’s not in his shitty garage out of the kindness of her heart. They both hesitate.

“Are you going to let me read the lyrics?” she asks in a low, vaguely anticipatory tone, and he closes the distance to press his lips against hers. Her lip gloss tastes like cinnamon. She scoots back in her seat, but her hands come up to grip his face, and he hovers over her, bracing himself with one hand on one of the old lawn chairs. 

Valerie is a good kisser, although she takes things slower than he would have liked. His arm hurts from leaning like this, and he drops onto his knees; he’s tall enough that he can still reach her mouth without much effort. She wraps her arms around his neck, locking her fingers at the back, and he fumbles with her hoodie. 

And then he’s crying, and he doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t take her long to notice. Archie hasn’t cried in front of anyone since the first night after Mom left for Chicago, and Dad was very uncomfortable, patting his back, telling Archie it was good to let it all out, that there was nothing wrong with a man crying, all in this tone that implied that, had he cried in front of his father at age fourteen, there would have been hell to pay.

Crying in front of a girl he was hoping to have sex with is much, much worse. Valerie instantly goes into big sister mode, squeezing his shoulder and muttering comforts in his ear, asking him what’s wrong, if he’s okay, until he forces back the tears and shakes off her hand. “I’m fine,” he says, hoping he sounds as desperate as he’s sure he looks, because he just… needs to not talk right now and do stuff instead.

He kisses her again, sitting down suddenly on the old couch in the corner that smells a little or a lot like Vegas, and then immediately stills when Valerie jerks away from him and backs up, breathing hard. “I- fuck, I’m-,” he didn’t mean to- was he too pushy? Should he have asked? Both times? Is she mad at him, or freaked out, or-

“You’re not fine,” Valerie runs a hand through her curls, letting out a shaky exhale. “Jesus, Archie.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, struggling not to start crying again. “Shit, Valerie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so…” God, he’s such a fucking mess. 

“Look,” she says, “I… I like you, Archie, but I don’t think we should… You’re clearly upset, and… I didn’t really come over here to…,” she flushes, and amends, “I mean, I didn’t think you’d want to… go all the way today. I just- I think that should be, you know. For someone you really, really care about. Like… it’s kind of special, your first time.”

Oh Jesus fuck. She doesn’t want to have sex, she had no intention of going beyond some making out and maybe a little light petting, and she thinks he’s a virgin who lost his nerve trying to get laid for the first time. Or something like that. It would almost be funny if it all wasn’t so pathetic and shitty. 

He buries his face in his hands, and he can almost sense her cringing from several feet away. After a moment, she stands close by and squeezes his shoulder again. “Hey, don’t worry about it. We all have those… days. I know you’ve been getting a lot of shit lately, from the guys on the team…”

He can’t even look at her. Valerie clears her throat awkwardly. “I’ve never done it either,” she tells him, sympathetically. “Um. So don’t feel bad.”

Archie barely says another word until she leaves, and then lies on the shitty old couch and stares at the Dad-soundproofed garage ceiling and screams until his throat burns. Geraldine is gone and was never really there to begin with and he’s not a virgin and everyone thinks he’s a moron and he’s still not a virgin because his first time was in the back of his high school music teacher’s Volkswagen and he cried after that, too, only she rubbed his back the way his mom used to when she actually gave a fuck and then she got him a slushie.

He can still taste the fucking slushie and her cherry lip gloss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand some people may feel that the way the Grundy-Archie relationship (at least in the physical sense) was concluded was anti-climactic or too brief, but I felt like a more drawn-out or even more satisfying ending would have been something of a disservice to the fact that very, very often in these type of situations, there is no dramatic comeuppance or strike back at the abuser, and the victim is simply left to pick up the pieces and try to move on with their life.


	23. Chapter 23

Jughead can think of a lot of things he’d rather be doing after school than willingly seeking out Reggie Mantle. Writing. Reading. Gaming. Tagging the drive-in before it gets bulldozed. Consoling Archie in the wake of Grundy’s flight. Pulling out his own teeth. But Betty is insistent, and while she really shouldn’t be able to talk him into anything, she has and she is.

“I know this seems risky,” Betty says for the hundredth time as they walk down to the river, where she’s explicitly banned and where he knows better than to go at this time of day. “But Trev told me Jason and Reggie were friends.”

“Yeah,” says Jughead, doubtfully. “Right. I can see it now. Jason with his polo shirts and Reggie with his… steroids.”

“Look, I know Reggie’s a dealer,” Betty snaps. “It’s not like, a secret or anything. Everyone knows he sells pills.”

“Well, allow me to clarify that,” mutters Jughead. “Reggie sells pills to the student population of Riverdale High, because if he ever tried to deal in Serpents territory, he’d get his ass beat so far into the pavement he’d be shitting concrete for weeks.”

Betty frowns, but doesn’t disagree. “So maybe Jason was buying from him?”

“I guess.” Jughead doesn’t see any way this ends well. Neither of them has a car, Reggie’s got even more of a grudge than before due to the whole Chuck thing, and he’s guaranteed to have company. If him and his buddies decide to jump them Jughead really doesn’t like his chances of holding off five or six guys. And Betty… well, she has pepper spray, so that’s something.

But if he wasn’t going with her she’d probably go alone, and while he doesn’t think Reggie, for all his dickish ways, would ever seriously hurt Betty, he doesn’t like the idea of her showing up by herself to confront some likely drunk and/or stoned high school shitheads under a goddamn bridge. Also… they’re kind of sort of friends now, and friends don’t let friends do this stuff alone.

They stumble down the rocky incline to the bridge, and Jughead immediately picks up the music blasting nearby. “Let me go first,” he grabs the back of Betty’s denim jacket, and while she scowls she lets him lead the way. It’s not that he thinks they’ll be any more thrilled to see his face, but if this gets ugly he’d rather be the one attracting the attention while she gets the fuck out of there.

Reggie is furiously making out with Midge Klump. Midge’s real name is Margaret, but since ‘Margaret Klump’ sounds like an extremely unpleasant librarian with a greying perm, Jughead can see why she’d go by Midge instead. Midge is only a freshman, just shy of five feet, and wears her dark hair in a sometimes edgy, sometimes not page-boy. Jughead doesn’t know much about her except that she’s apparently with Moose… or was.

A couple other guys are sitting in beat up lawn chairs salvaged from someone’s garage or basement, smoking, but they stand up when they see Jughead approaching. “Reg, fag alert,” one cough-snickers, and Midge yelps in protest as Reggie not-so-carefully removes her from his lap, resulting in her being dumped onto the damp ground.

“Whoa,” he sneers a little unsteadily, looking from Jughead to Betty. “You bring your very first real live girlfriend here to watch you get destroyed, Jonesy?”

“We’re not here to fight, Reggie,” Betty says placatingly. “We just have a few questions about Jason-,”

Jughead doesn’t like the way they’re circling up, or the way Betty has gone stock-still like a deer in headlights. He grabs her by the elbow and pulls her behind him. He knew this was a shitty idea. Fucking Betty and her fucking persuasiveness with her green eyes and her wheedling tones. “I think you already paid me back three times over for Chuck,” he tells Reggie bluntly, “so let’s not go for round four.”

“Why not?” Reggie leers.

“Because one of these days I might just get pissed enough to bring it up with my dad,” Jughead hates that he has to resort to this, but there’s no other option but blind intimidation tactics right now, and he’s sure as hell not going to physically intimidate them, “and you know, he’s kind of overprotective when it comes to me getting the shit kicked out of me.”

“Yeah,” Reggie scoffs, “I know you Jones’ like to keep that all in the family.”

Jughead has never, ever told anyone about what goes on or has gone on with Dad and Mom or Dad and him so logically this is pure speculation on Reggie’s part- white trash, ergo… domestic violence, but- He’s too busy tackling Reggie to the ground to care. 

Midge shrieks, Betty unleashes her pepper spray on someone, because he hears the tell-tale hiss, and Reggie is thrashing underneath him as Jughead punches him in the throat, and then knees him as hard as he can in the groin before being thrown off.

He rolls over in the mud before scrambling back up, but Reggie is still gasping on the ground, eyes staring wildly up at the graffitied underside of the bridge, and his friends are in the process of running off as Betty brandishes her pepper spray, fly-away blonde strands escaping her ponytail. Her face is flushed and her eyes are hard and he feels such a strong surge of wanting that it catches him off guard, before Reggie starts to struggle to his feet, panting, and Jughead snatches up a rock.

He’s only got this once chance to make Reggie back off, so he kicks him hard in the shin to get his attention, summons every bit of Dad’s leather jacket wearing bravado and 70s and 80s raised toxic masculinity, and snarls, “Don’t you ever talk about my fucking family again you retarded piece of shit or I swear to fucking God I will bash your goddamn brains out, do you hear me?” Reggie stares at him as if unable to identify the skinny teenager looming over him. “I said, do you fucking hear me, asshole?” Jughead gives the rock an experimental swing.

Reggie flinches, and grunts, massaging his thick neck, “Yeah.”

“Apologize to him,” Betty demands shrilly, still holding up her pepper-spray. Jughead resists the urge to turn around and gape at her. “Apologize to him for being such a… such a piece of shit!”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, okay!”

Midge is looking between all three of them as if she’s just wandered onto the set of a movie. To be honest, she looks more impressed than concerned for Reggie’s welfare. Reggie seems torn between fear, mortification at both being abandoned and getting beat up in front of not one but two girls, one of whom is armed, and pure shock that for once Jughead didn’t bother trying to outrun him.

Betty pockets her pepper spray, and Jughead reluctantly drops the rock as Reggie gets to his feet. “I never sold anything to Jason,” Reggie bites out, clearly now only interested in getting them to leave, “but he asked me about how he could start dealing. Last June. Said something had come up and he needed as much cash as possible, fast. I know he’d already sold a bunch of shit, even some of his mom’s jewelry.”

“What did he need the money for?” Betty is adjusting her ponytail, voice significantly calmer than before. Jughead is trying not to look at her head-on so she doesn’t see the expression on his face, which is probably one of slack-jawed idiocy.

“I don’t know. I figured he got hooked on something, wanted to sell to so he’d have money to buy it. But I didn’t set him up with anything- less competition the better, right?” Reggie glances warily at Jughead. “Told him to try Southside instead. Maybe he did. I dunno. Dude was almost as weird as Cheryl. Could never tell what he was thinking.”

There’s a moment of silence, which Midge breaks by asking, somewhat petulantly, “Can you give me a ride home or not?”

Reggie stares angrily at her, but stalks off in the general direction of his car. Midge flashes Betty and Jughead an amused grin before trailing after him. Jughead watches them go, wondering how Midge, who seems nice enough, if a bit impulsive, can find someone like Reggie palatable, but maybe it’s just not that big of a deal to her. He wants to go back to when everything was no big deal for him, too.

“Wow,” says Betty after a few seconds. “That was crazy.”

“Hm,” says Jughead, who feels distinctly uncomfortable with the fact that just a few minutes ago he was impossibly attracted to her with no warning whatsoever. This is not something he wants to have to deal with. Naive, earnest Betty of the polka dot raincoat and Wonder Woman keychain was safe and predictable to work with. 

This Betty is the same Betty who broke into the school with him, and he’s a bit uneasy with how much he wants her. He’s an adolescent male with a functioning sex drive; he watches porn, he fantasizes when he’s alone or just bored in class, but he hasn’t had a real crush since middle school, it feels like, and this is different, it feels like he could actually act on it, even if that’s…

The cold, clear knowledge that Betty would never reciprocate is reassuring. He doesn’t want her to reciprocate. He doesn’t even want to think about it. The last thing he needs right now is some aborted attempt at a fumbling high school relationship, or worse, a clumsy try for sex. He doesn’t need to even think about it because if Betty knew what he was thinking she’d be horrified.

“Are you okay?” Betty draws closer, puts her hand on his arm, which feels like some sort of upgrade, one he didn’t consent to. 

He jerks away, guilty. “Yeah, I just… I didn’t mean to…”

“You stood up to him.”

“I sunk to his level.” Jughead’s not going to bullshit himself. He didn’t do it because Reggie’s a bullying asshole, he did it because Reggie pissed him off enough to send him into a rage. It wasn’t about doing the right thing, it was about hitting someone. He’s not like that. He’s not supposed to be like that. 

He takes after Mom. Mom, who used to catch spiders in jars and cans and deposit them carefully outside. His mother has never raised a hand in anger in her life, and his father has done plenty of things warranting at the very least an outraged slap to the face. Except maybe Jughead isn’t really that much like Mom at all, and it’s just some fantasy he and Dad concocted separately. Pretend you are not your father’s son. Pretend your wife is coming back.

“Sometimes you have to sink to people’s level to get through to them,” Betty does not look away from him. Her face is an open book. She looks impassioned at all the wrong moments. He wants to write her, because he can’t really draw for shit. 

“Maybe,” he says, with an odd half-smile in an attempt to break this spell she’s creating. Maybe his fleeting attraction to her is some ultimate narcissistic jerk-off. Maybe it’s just that he sees himself in her, and he’s just as much an egomaniac as Reggie. 

“Thanks for coming with me.” Why isn’t she walking? Does she want him to say something more substantial? To kiss her? Fuck, he’s really off the rails right now. She does not want him to kiss her. She’s just being Betty, champion of truth, justice, and the Riverdale way.

“We should go home. Um- you need to go home,” he says, and she looks vaguely hurt, but not enough for it to really register. 

“Right.”

He walks her home for the second time in less than a week. Every time their arms accidentally brush he has to focus on Reggie’s stunned expression to ward off further thoughts of passionately kissing Betty Cooper under a bridge that reeks of weed and cheap beer.


	24. Chapter 24

Cheryl sleeps in Jason’s bed the night before his memorial service. Mother forbid the housekeeper from so much as entering his room, so the sheets haven’t been changed. They still smell like Jason, like new leather and grandfatherly cologne and autumn leaves and black cherries. She sleeps on her stomach, breathing in his scent, imagining that he is still there.

She used to have horrible nightmares as a child, and Mother and Daddy had forbid her from waking them up in the middle of the night by the time she was eight. Instead she would creep into her brother’s room, and slide into bed beside him. Jason was always a heavy sleeper, and usually wouldn’t so much as stir, but they always seemed to fit together perfectly.

She puts on one of Jason’s records, and falls asleep, bare legs tangled in the quilt he’s had since middle school, to Fleetwood Mac’s The Ghost. Cheryl doesn’t like Fleetwood Mac. She likes Billie Holiday, Sweeney Todd, and Def Leppard. But she wants to pretend, even if only for one night, that Jason is still with her. In this room, when she closes her eyes, she can feel him sitting on the edge of the bed, or pacing across the creaking hardwood floor.

She hears him humming by the window at just past two in the morning. His shadow is wreathed by the billowing curtains. Cheryl smiles dazedly at him, and falls back asleep. In the morning her mouth is dry and numb and her hair is a knotted, frizzy mess. She forgot to take off her mascara last night, and she can feel it crumbling in the corner of her eyes. Unsure of where her phone is, she consults the old clock on Jason’s night stand.

It is just past nine. Good. She wasn’t planning on going into school today anyways. It’s not as if anyone will expect her to be there. She struggles to remember the date. September 26th, 2017. Three months ago, Jason was still here. Still alive. She dreamed they were small again, playing hide and seek in Thornhill’s drafty, echoing halls. The mansion never frightened Cheryl as a child, because she ran through it holding Jason’s steady hand in her own. 

In her dream, she is counting to ten, and when she uncovers her eyes, Jason is nowhere to be found. She searches everywhere for him, and in the end, is called down for dinner by Mother. Jason’s drowned, pallid corpse lies on the immaculate dining room table, as Daddy hacks off a hunk of grey, rotten flesh. It is the sort of dream that should have woken her with a piercing scream, but in it all she did was take her seat and offer up her plate.

As she sits up in bed, Jason’s heavy oak door bangs open. Mother stands in the doorway, eyes darting around wildly before settling on Cheryl. “What are you doing in here?” she demands shrilly, and Cheryl realizes that Mother must have heard someone in Jason’s room. Did some small part of her think it might be him? That the body they’d seen in the morgue was all some sick joke? If only.

“Sleeping,” Cheryl yawns, as if to prove it. 

“Cheryl,” Mother snaps, “do not let me catch you in your brother’s room again. This is disturbed. Sleep in your own bed, for God’s sake.”

Cheryl says nothing, playing with the hem of her silken pajama shorts. Mother’s lip curls slightly. “You should be in school.”

“Why? I’m in mourning. We’re burying him today. No one wants me there.”

No one wants you here, either, her mother’s gaze says, but Cheryl doesn’t acknowledge it. Mother may not understand her, but she understands Penelope Blossom perfectly. Cheryl has been an unsightly blossom on Mother’s picture-perfect family tree ever since she learned to talk. She has never been demure enough, reserved enough, or obedient enough for either of her parents. 

Jason was their golden boy, and Cheryl is their ever-rusting daughter. She was born defective, she remains defective, and she knows Mother is simply holding on until Cheryl can be shipped off to some private college, preferably in another state, and only endured a few times a year. Cheryl is holding on until that too, only she hasn’t been able to summon up the energy to care much about college applications as of late. 

At least ‘twin’s unsolved murder’ will make for an excellent essay topic, and probably qualify her for some scholarships. 

“You should be in school,” Mother repeats tightly, and huffs. “Get dressed. The family will be arriving soon.”

‘The family’ includes Daddy’s three uncles and their wives, children, and grandchildren, and Mother’s two older sisters, along with their husbands and children. Cheryl isn’t very close with any of her cousins, none of whom reside in Riverdale, but she plasters on a falsely bright smile all the same as the line of expensive cars pull up and around the gravel drive.

The adults pat her cheek and press dry kisses to her clammy brow, coo over her figure and how tall she’s gotten, and cast sidelong glances at the bordering on flirtatious cut of her ruffled black skirt and her impossibly high heels. While the men retreat to Daddy’s study and the women flutter after Mother into the sun room, Cheryl is banished downstairs with her assorted cousins. 

Eugene, whose mother is Daddy’s cousin through his uncle Bedford, is the only cousin Cheryl’s age, although Dottie, whose father is Daddy’s cousin through his uncle Harrison, is only a year older than Cheryl. She goes to Duke, and never shuts up about it. Eugene’s sister Vicki and Dottie’s brother Henry are both freshmen in high school, and Roy is a sophomore. Wanda and Ginny are the youngest, and both in the eighth grade. 

Cheryl really can’t stand any of them. They’re all varying degrees of snotty, standoffish, and supercilious, with sneers to put her own to shame, and pitying looks that follow her around the room as she struts and flaunts the fact that she is the only surviving child of the main line, and one day Thornhill, and all its accompanying wealth and prestige, will be hers. They might be Blossoms, but they’re not Riverdale Blossoms. They’re not real, not like her. Not like Jason.

After all, none of them are twins.

They have a late luncheon at three thirty, as the first guests are due to arrive at five o’clock sharp. Half the town will likely show up, if only to see the circus sideshow that is Cheryl Blossom’s extended family, and to try to pocket some of the silverware. Cheryl can hardly wait. There’s nothing she relishes more than a spectacle, no matter the circumstances.

That’s why she loves theater. When she’s on stage, under a blinding spotlight, she can’t even see the individual faces in the crowd. She might as well be all alone, talking and singing to herself. The world is her oyster, in those moments. She is the only true whole and live person in the universe, she matters, she is forever, permanent, and the lights on her will never go out. The faceless crowd will jump to their feet and roar with approval, and she will feel, for once, something close to normal, and steady.

Cheryl is wedged in between Nana Rose, who eats like a bird, as usual, occasionally going off onto some tangent about her childhood and her Irish Traveller mother, and Mother. Aunt Cassandra, Mother’s eldest sister, is directly across from them, along with her husband, Uncle Jerome. Cassandra’s hair is a thinning shade of pale strawberry blonde, and her lipstick is an ugly blend of peach and dusty rose. 

“I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you,” she croons at Cheryl, who is struggling to pick apart her lobster. 

“Immensely difficult,” grits Cheryl, splattering shell fragments on the pure white tablecloth.

Mother is barely holding back her grimace. “Cheryl is such a _sensitive_ girl. She and Jason were very close.”

“So we’ve heard,” says Jerome, exchanging a veiled look with his wife.

Cheryl tenses, and Mother stiffens as if in the process of petrification. Even among family, rumors circle. It’s almost ironic that Cheryl has still managed to be the biggest freak in the freakshow- _poor, harried Cliff and Penelope, with their crazy daughter and dead son. It’s such a shame it couldn’t have been the girl instead. With an attitude like hers, and the way she dresses… you’d think they’d have found her dead in the river some day, not that sweet boy._

“Clifford and I will say a few words,” Mother continues, as if she hasn’t heard anything of the sort at all, “but we expect it to be a very quiet affair. Just like Jason- he was such a reserved, shy boy.”

Jason wasn’t shy. He simply chose to keep his opinions to himself. He carefully stored them in his throat for Cheryl, who would pry them out when they were alone, one by one. Jason had lots of opinions, and they were almost always identical to Cheryl’s, at least until Polly Cooper practically threw herself at his feet and begged him to fuck some excitement into her ho-hum suburban life.

No, it wasn’t enough for stupid, poky Polly to be a pretty cheerleader with lots of giggly friends and a collection of girlish headbands and dresses, each more asinine than the last. No, she wanted a little danger, a little exhilaration. She wanted Cheryl’s brother to take her like a man in the back of their convertible and walk down by the river with her, acting as though he wasn’t bored stiff.

Polly was just a distraction for Jason. A distraction from Mother and Daddy and this house and his life on the trophy shelf. The only reason he- he never would have left, had circumstances been different. Not like that. Not with her. If he was going to drive off into the sunset with anyone, it was supposed to be Cheryl. His sister. The only one who truly understood him.

She’s glad Polly’s locked up with those nuns, or else she’d probably be here, looking god-awful in black and crying her watery eyes out, all puffed up and pink. And Cheryl would have to held back from beating her over the head with a fireplace poker. Jason is hers to mourn. Their parents didn’t even know him, just an idealized version of their son. A possession, not a person.

Which is why when the first guests start to filter into the parlor, Cheryl finds her place by Jason’s coffin, and ignores Daddy’s pointed glowers telling her to find a seat. She’s not here as a visitor. She’s a Blossom, and his twin, and she has every right to be up here. Mother is busy shooting daggers at Hermione Lodge, sitting with a sour-faced Veronica, and Alice Cooper, who is arguing under her breath with her piggish husband, who looks like he’s close to storming out.

Archie is shifting uncomfortably somewhere in the back with his father, whose suit is ill-fitting and whose tie is slightly crooked. And Betty… Betty Cooper and her favorite chew toy, Jughead Jones, are absolutely nowhere to be seen. Curious and curiouser. They must be here- Jughead’s probably frantically jerking off in some bathroom, he’s such a tragedy enthusiast-

The room quiets, and Cheryl steps forward before Mother or Daddy can stop her. “Thank you all _so much_ for being here,” she says, licking her red, red lips. She just reapplied her lipstick. It’s called something stupid like Lover’s Revenge or Scarlet Vice. But it feels good. Her mask is firmly affixed. “I just wanted to tell you all a little bit about my brother.”

“Cheryl Marjorie,” Mother hisses from mere feet away, but Cheryl ignores her. Kevin Keller is surreptitiously recording this with his phone under his jacket a few rows away. 

“When we were little, I never wanted to share my birthday party with Jason,” she says, smiling. The crowd somewhat warily smiles back. It does sound cute enough. “I was insistent on having my own party- I didn’t want to share anything, least of all my cake or presents. Jason didn’t care, so he’d have his party the week after mine, every year. He never complained. He just wanted to make me happy, because he cared about me.”

“And then when we got a little older Jason started to ask me if we could share a party again, and even though I didn’t want to, eventually he wore me down. My brother was always very persuasive.” 

Alice Cooper looks like she’d like to douse the room in lighter fluid and strike a match with a flourish.

“But the reason Jason changed his mind about sharing our party wasn’t because he was sick of letting me have things my way. It was because no one wanted to come to my parties anymore. Because I didn’t have any friends at all. And he did. He didn’t want me to feel that pain, so instead he tried to protect me, by sharing his friends and his happiness with me.”

The lump in her throat is hard and solid. Cheryl just barely manages to swallow around it. 

“Jason is my elder brother by three minutes and thirty three seconds, and from the time we were babies, he always wanted to protect and shelter me. He was always there for me, even when I wasn’t there for him. He listened to all of my problems and concerns, but never shared his with me, because he felt that it was his duty to be a shoulder for me to lean on. In that sense, Jason was one of the most selfless and compassionate people I have ever known.”

“But the downside to that is that Jason didn’t feel he could come to me when he was worried or stressed. He didn’t feel like I could handle his worries that way he could mine. He wanted to protect me so much that he lied to me, didn’t tell me things he should have. He wanted me to believe that he was fine, even happy, when he clearly wasn’t. Jason was suffering, and I didn’t see it. And what I did see, I did nothing about. I thought that he’d solve everything, because he’s always been my smart, capable brother. But Jason… Jason couldn’t solve his problems.”

The room is silent. It might as well be empty. Cheryl smiles painfully, feeling her cheeks stretch. “Jason is dead now. Because I could never protect him the way he protected me. Because I failed my brother, the most important person in my life. I failed him just like the rest of our family. We put him on a high pedestal, and didn’t notice when he started to topple and fall. And he did fall. And break. And now there’s nothing to do but pick up the pieces.”

Daddy’s hand comes down heavy on her shoulder, and Cheryl steps back from the microphone. 

“Thank you, darling,” Mother says clearly. “For that… _lovely_ … speech.” She is barely restraining herself from flying at Cheryl in fury. 

_Fuck you_ , thinks Cheryl, and nearly mouths it, side-stepping Daddy’s iron grip and stalking out of the room.


	25. Chapter 25

Betty doesn’t want to go to Jason Blossom’s memorial service any more than she wanted to confront Reggie Mantle under a bridge, but this is turning into a week full of grit-your-teeth-and-get-through-it moments. She still feels horribly about that. She never should have put Jughead in that situation- Reggie has been horrible to him since middle school, and it wasn’t fair for her to expect him to waltz in with her and act as though everything was fine.

He’s been distant (well, more distant than usual, which maybe isn’t saying much) since then, and while she wants to apologize, she doesn’t want to make things even more awkward between them. They were just starting to- well, they were friends. They are friends. At least, she thinks they are. She didn’t intend to spend this much time with Jughead when she recruited him for the paper, but… He’s surprised her. Frequently. 

And they agreed to attend the Blossom memorial… to sneak upstairs and root through a dead boy’s belongings. Which is probably a one-way ticket to Hell. Betty comes from nosy reporter stock, but even Mom would quail at that. She thinks. It’s… it’s pretty bad. But they’re never going to find anything out by playing nice and asking polite questions. If they want the truth, they have to seek it out themselves.

But all this ‘the greater good!’ excusing doesn’t make her feel any better about it. Still, with Sheriff Keller’s evidence being raided… Obviously someone out there doesn’t want the real story coming out. The Blossom home could be broken into next, who knows, assuming it wasn’t a Blossom who committed the break-in in the first place. Betty doesn’t hate them the way Mom and Dad do, but Cheryl and her parents aren’t exactly saints either.

Mom and Dad have reluctantly agreed to allow her to come with them to Thornhill, and just before she starts to get ready Betty finds herself standing in the garage as Dad works on the car, wrench in hand. She’s been helping Dad out with mechanics, and other stuff around the house and yard, since at least kindergarten. 

Betty was always the more tomboyish one, compared to girly girl Polly. She likes to think she’s rounded out a bit now, not scorning pretty dresses or make-up anymore, but she’s still a bit of a daddy’s girl when it comes to this sort of stuff.

“Dad,” she finally says, clearing her throat a little, and glancing down at him, as he lies on his back under the car. This will be easier without having to make eye contact.

He rolls out from under the Lincoln, broad face creased in concern. “What’s wrong, Bets?”

Betty tries not to let her anxiety show. She should be able to ask her dad about her sister. It’s not unreasonable. What’s unreasonable is her parents acting like they only have one daughter and sealing off Polly’s room like a crime scene. It’s not as if she’s dead. 

“I… I was just- wondering. About Polly. And um,” she plunges on, before he can stop her, “what really happened. With her and… Jason. I asked Mom, but she- she just got mad, and I… I just want to know.”

He’s silent for a few moments and Betty wonders if he’s just going to pretend like he never heard her at all, but then he sighs. “Betty… Your sister got very wrapped up with that boy, very quickly. She’s not like you. She’s… delicate. Naive. She didn’t know what she was doing. They fought constantly. You know that, but- she was just distraught, all the time. It’s horrible, as a father, to see your daughter going through something like that, and not being able to stop it.” He tenses visibly. 

“Around the time you left for LA, she was really starting to break down. Wouldn’t eat, slept all day in her room, refused to shower or get dressed… Your mother was beside herself with worry. We tried everything, but she refused to open up to us. And then he- well, he vanished, and your sister… spiraled, Betty. Your mother found her… cutting herself in the bathroom. She could have killed herself. We had to send her away. We didn’t want to, of course, but- Polly needs help she can’t get at home, Betty. And she needs to be away from… any reminders of him.”

Betty is horrified; she knew Polly was… broody and depressed, but to picture her sister self-harming- she feels sick. What if Polly really had killed herself? All over some stupid boy? She’s only seventeen- she’s never even left New York, nevermind experienced life beyond this town and its petty drama and rivalries. How could everything spin out of control so fast? 

She and Polly haven’t been close in years, but she still loves her sister, and to imagine losing her is… unbearable. They may not always get along, but they’re both Cooper girls. They grew up in the same house, have dealt with the same things. Betty has always been a sister. Polly is a part of her, for better or worse. 

Betty doesn’t tell Jughead all that when she pulls him off into a side corridor at Thornhill, but she does give him the abbreviated version. He looks about as shocked as Jughead Jones can, although he’s still acting a bit off, hands shove deep in his jean pockets; she should have figured that he doesn’t own a suit, and has made do with dark, semi-professional looking jeans, a sweater, and dress shoes a size too big borrowed from Archie. 

“My theory that he was trying to run away still stands,” he says, in a voice barely above a murmur, dark eyes darting up and down the secluded hallway. “It explains why he’d need the money. And why your sister freaked. Maybe he told her beforehand- we have to talk to her.”

“They won’t let me visit her,” Betty whispers back, but her mind is still racing. Maybe she could take the bus? She wants to see Polly. Wants to make sure she’s okay, that she’s still the same exasperating, annoying, but ultimately well-intentioned older sister that Betty remembers. 

“We’ll- whatever, we’ll figure it out,” he mutters. “We have to get upstairs. Do you see anyone?”

Betty cautiously leads the way over to the nearest stairwell, a narrow back one likely originally intended for servants. She has yet to see any butlers or maids, however. “It looks clear. Remember, if we run into someone, we were looking for a bathroom.”

“Together?” Jughead sounds like he was trying to be sarcastic, but it comes out slightly strangled and awkward. Betty flushes, but starts up the stairs anyway, trying not to make too much noise. 

On the next floor, she realizes that they have no idea which room is Jason, so this is going to call for an educated guess. They split up and start rattling door-knobs, and Betty quickly locates Cheryl’s bedroom- the door is unlocked, to her surprise, and for a moment she stands and stares into Cheryl’s room, with its girlish wallpaper and four poster bed, plush rug and luxurious window seat. 

Clothes are scattered everywhere, and the bed is a mess. She even spots a few stuffed animals in a corner, which is just so… weird. Cheryl was once a skinny thirteen year old with acne and stuffed animals and probably a very dramatic diary. Betty has only ever know her as a walking theater piece in a series of scarlet miniskirts and high heels.

Unsettled, she closes the door, and tries the room directly across from Cheryl’s. Locked. Jughead comes up. “This has to be his, I checked the others.”

Betty shakes the doorknob, helplessly. “It’s locked. Can you pick it?”

He chews on his lower lip. “Then they’ll know someone was in here.” He hesitates, then leans up, lifting a long arm and feeling along the top of the door frame. Then he gives a slow, triumphant grin, and lowers his arm, a key in hand. “Typical.”

“They just left the key there?”

He shrugs. “People are dumb.”

Jason’s room is dark, the curtains drawn. Betty fumbles her way over to a lamp and flicks it on, illuminating the room. His bed is neatly made, the floor spotless, a far cry from Cheryl’s. Still, it could have been tidied up after his death. Trying not to feel like a complete scumbag, she tiptoes around, opening drawers and peeking under the bed, while Jughead pulls open the closet door. 

Betty’s afraid to make too much of a mess searching for things, but they also can’t afford to not use this time to their advantage, and she crouches down beside his bed to try to lift the mattress. God, this is so creepy. Jughead is digging through a box he pulled down from the closet, and then groans.

“What?” Betty hisses.

“Nothing, it’s just- old pictures, from when he and Cheryl were kids. School stuff.”

“Oh my god,” she says miserably, as she worms a hand under Jason’s mattress. “We’re terrible people, we are terrible people-,”

The door, which they shut behind them, gently creaks open, and Betty gasps in horror, whirling around and jumping to her feet. “Fuck!” Jughead drops the box, scattering pictures across the hardwood floor.

It’s Cheryl and Jason’s grandmother, a dimunitive, white-haired woman with a slight hunch and a cane. She looks at them not in shock or anger but with mild surprise, and then says, “Hello.”

“Mrs. Blossom,” Betty murmurs, feeling her stomach drop and tighten simultaneously, “I am so, so sorry, we- this isn’t-,”

“It’s so nice to see you again,” Rose Blossom says, not unkindly, and Betty is left wondering when she’s met the woman before. Surely she’d remember it, right? But-

“Come into the light, so I can see you properly,” Rose tsks, and Betty, shooting a panicked glance at Jughead, does so. Rose smiles fondly at her. “You look very pretty, Polly.”

Oh my god. She’s been caught snooping in a dead boy’s room by said dead boy’s grandmother who, in her old age and likely dementia, has mistaken her for her hospitalized sister. It’s like something out of a soap opera. Jughead seems on the verge of saying something, but instead quickly bends down to pick up the fallen photos.

“Thank- thank you, Mrs. Blossom,” Betty whispers. She should correct the poor woman, but she doesn’t want to upset her.

“I told you to call me Nana… or just Rose, Polly,” the old woman chuckles breathily, and then sobers. “It’s all so horrible. You’re so young, Polly, to go through something like this… I was heartbroken when my Chester died, and we had many, many good years together. You’re just a child.”

Betty struggles to keep herself composed, nails digging into the fabric of her modest black skirt. “I… I’m so sorry, Rose. For your loss. Jason…”

But Rose is peering at her hands. “You’re not wearing it, Polly. I suppose that’s for the best.”

Betty curls her fingers up. “Wearing what?”

“The ring, dear girl,” Rose says, with a sad smile. “My ring. I was so happy to give it to Jason. It’s not every day a Blossom falls in love, and he did love you. Poor, sweet boy. He felt everything so deeply. Him and Cheryl both. They really are lovely children, I don’t know why… Well, it’s best Penelope not see it. The ring, I mean, Polly. She’d be fit to be tied, you can be sure of that!”

Betty is truly speechless for a few moments, before she croaks out. “I… I won’t let her see it, Rose.”

“You keep it, Polly,” Rose assures her. “It was meant for you. Jason would have done anything for you, I know it. Why, your wedding… I was so looking forward to that, I really was. Now… at least you still have something to look forward to.” With a little nod, she slowly walks out of the room, leaving Betty to turn to Jughead in open-mouthed shock.

He clutches the box of photos to his chest, and then after a moment, manages, “They were engaged?”

“They were engaged?” Betty repeats shrilly, and then freezes as they hear footsteps at the far end of the hall. 

“Mother?” It’s unmistakably Clifford Blossom. Betty doesn’t think he’s going to mistake her for Polly.

“Hide,” Jughead mouths, and waves her frantically over to the closet. Betty takes a step towards him, then lunges back to turn out the lamp, before skittering across the floor in her flats. They huddle into the closet, closing the door behind them as Mr. Blossom’s footsteps draw closer, and Betty sucks in a frantic breath, pressed up against Jughead’s warm, sweatery chest as Clifford pauses outside the bedroom door.

She’s starting to hyperventilate a little when Jughead’s arm comes down around her shoulders, and she stills. The bedroom door opens, and they hear Cheryl’s father take a step into the room. Jughead backs them both further into the closet, moving through hanging shirts and pants. Betty closes her eyes tight like a child playing hide and seek.

But Mr. Blossom doesn’t come any further into the room, and after a moment, they hear him step out, shutting the door behind him, and moving down the hallway. Betty is still too nervous to move, until Jughead fumbles open the closet door and practically pushes them both out and into the room. 

“Sorry,” she says in a small voice. They’re both flushed and breathing heavily, and she watches in fascination as color creeps up his pale neck. He licks his lips, nervously, and she folds her arms under her chest, glancing to the floor and back at him. For a second there’s a look in his eyes like- she doesn’t know what, but it makes the hair on the back of her neck prickle not unpleasantly. And then it passes and they both leave the room, without saying another word to one another.


	26. Chapter 26

Veronica isn’t speaking to Mom, a tactic she has not employed since middle school. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make much of a difference, since Mom is at work all day now, not just picking up waitressing shifts at Pop’s. Fred Andrews’ secretarial positions has mysteriously opened up since Veronica witnessed him and Mom making out like teenagers in his truck, so now she works with him in his small office downtown. All day. 

She doesn’t think Archie’s dad is a scumbag- scumbags don’t raise boys like Archie, all queasy grins and chivalry, but she doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that he just happened to find work for Mom after they… got together. They’re not publically dating or anything, at least, Veronica didn’t think they were- Mr. Andrews isn’t even divorced yet, just separated from Archie’s mom- until Mom informs her that she’s Fred’s date to the high school variety show on Saturay night.

“Good for you,” Veronica snipes, flipping through her copy of Teen Vogue without looking up. “It’ll be just like old times, I guess.”

“I wasn’t with Fred in high school,” Mom sounds like an offended teenager, not a grown woman in her forties. “Veronica- you’re allowed to be upset. This isn’t serious.”

“So you’re not cheating on Dad?”

“Cheating- you want to hear about cheating, mija, go ask your father,” Mom snaps, and some of her lower-middle-class upbringing creeps into her tone. It wasn’t exactly rags to riches, but the Riveros, Mom’s family, who she doesn’t speak to anymore, weren’t exactly rolling in cash. Far from it. Dad might as well have scooped her up out of the gutter and into his Mercedes Benz. 

It all sounded really romantic when Veronica was a little girl, when she still thought her family was happy, when Mom and Dad seemed truly in love. Now it’s all the just the same cynical bullshit. All about what Dad can do for Mom and Mom can do for Dad. Tit for tat. Mom cozies up to people, Dad reaps the profit, Mom in turn gets to go on a shopping spree.

But Veronica doesn’t want to hear about any of Dad’s affairs, which she is still mostly in denial of. It’s not like Dad was ever obvious about it. Just a lot of late nights. It’s… whatever. Veronica doesn’t really have a high opinion of the ability of most men to stay loyal. Cheating isn’t just a hobby of the rich and privileged.

The Chuck fallout is just barely starting to die down at school, and all anyone can talk about now is Cheryl’s speech at her brother’s memorial, which half the school claims is a confession to his murder, and the other half claims is an accusation aimed at her parents. Either way, shockingly, the Blossoms didn’t take it very well, and Cheryl’s on lockdown. They took her car and her phone, which means she’s had to (temporarily) step down from both cheer and theater.

Veronica feels badly for her, but at this point she knows better than to try to extend an olive branch. With Jason finally buried, Cheryl’s in no mood for peace talks, and is on the offensive yet again. Veronica isn’t in the mood for trading barbs either, so she tries to stay out of her way. Meanwhile, something weird is going on with Betty and Jughead, beyond their usual sleuthing, and Veronica’s not sure how to bring it up with Betty. For all she knows, Betty is still hung up on Archie.

And Archie… well, with Grundy gone, Archie’s been quiet and withdrawn, which is why she’s shocked when he says he’s performing at the variety show at lunch. Kevin chokes on his chocolate milk. “You are?”

“Yeah,” Archie pushes around his french fries defensively, “I thought it’d be good to… put myself out there. And uh, Valerie quit the Pussycats, so Josie asked me if I could stand in and play bass for her…”

“What?” Kevin hisses.

“Valerie quit?” Betty frowns, neatly picking the crusts of her sandwich. “Why? I thought she and Josie and Melody were best friends.”

“Well,” Archie scratches his neck, “I guess they were, but… Valerie says she got sick of Josie always being so… demanding? I guess? So they had a big fight about who was like… in charge, and Valerie called her a diva and quit.”

“Well,” Kevin shrugs, “Josie’s been a diva since like, the third grade, so. Still. They replaced Valerie with you? No offense, Archie, but…” He shoots Veronica a ‘what the fuck is Josie thinking’ look. Veronica likes Archie, but she has to agree. He’s not really ‘Pussycats’ material. Being, you know. A dude. A white dude. Who likes Green Day. And plays football.

Archie raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not in the band, I’m just doing this one performance. I already got the lecture from Josie. Make myself as…. Background as possible.”

“You’ll do fine,” Veronica says encouragingly. “Besides, it’s just a school show. Not a big deal.”

He makes a doubtful noise. “Her dad’s coming to see her play.”

“Her jazz musician dad?” Kevin splutters. “Whoo boy. You’re in for a wild ride. Josie’s got daddy issues to rival well… Cheryl’s.”

Maybe the whole goddamn town has daddy issues, Veronica reflects dryly. It seems to be a common thread. 

“Yeah… my mom was supposed to come in this week, but some stuff came up.” Archie shoves a fry in his mouth. “So. But I guess my dad’s… going with your mom?” 

Veronica cringes. “Let’s not.”

“Okay,” he says between chews. “Yeah.”

As the next bell rings, Veronica speed-walks to catch up with Betty, who is in a rush as always. “Hey, we should hang out Friday night or something. Catch up.” She feels like Betty is always either staying late after school with Jughead to work on the paper… or out snooping around with Jughead. Maybe something is going on between them. She has a hard time picturing how that would work- they’re both so quiet, but who knows. People get crazy behind closed doors.

“Well…” Betty chews her lower lip. “I was gonna visit Polly on Friday.”

Veronica tries to conceal her disappointment. “Oh. I mean, I get it. You definitely should. Did your mom finally agree to take you?”

“Er…” Betty glances down. “Not really.”

Veronica frowns. “So how are you getting there?”

“The…. bus?” Betty doesn’t sound too sure about that. “I mean, Jughead offered to come but… I didn’t know how Polly would… react and also… I don’t know, I think we need some space from each other.”

“Did you guys get into a fight?” Veronica presses, as they start up the stairs to the math wing.

“No,” Betty flushes. “No, we’re not… it’s fine, it’s just…um. I feel bad for taking up all of his time with… paper stuff. I can’t just expect him to spend all his free time tracking down leads with me.”

Something definitely happened. Either she made a move on him, he made a move on her, one of them rejected the other… or one of them didn’t outright reject the other, and now they have no idea how to act around each other. Veronica has seen it all before. Granted, mostly on TV, but still. Hey, it could work. Wrong side of the tracks meets good girl. (Calling Jughead a ‘bad boy’ seems a bit much. He’s not particularly rebellious, just… apathetic.)

“How far away is the… home from here?” she asks.

“About a half hour.”

“Great,” says Veronica. “I’ll get you there. We don’t have Uber for nothing, you know? My treat.”

“Veronica-,” Betty sighs.

“And I’ll come with,” Veronica adds, a bit too eagerly, “I went to Catholic elementary school. I’m good with nuns.”

Betty somewhat cautiously agrees. “So it turns out Polly and Jason were actually… engaged,” she tells Veronica on the way there, as the treeline blurs together into a green mix outside the car window.

“Like…. Getting married engaged?” Veronica asks in a hushed tone. That’s… pretty crazy. Even for Riverdale. Polly’s only seventeen. What was their big plan? Get hitched and run away to some other tiny town? Why would they even want to get married? According to Betty, they weren’t even dating a full year.

“I guess so- Cheryl’s grandmother told us she gave Polly her ring. And her blessing. His parents didn’t know, and I don’t know if Cheryl knew either. I wasn’t about to ask her,” Betty says flatly, and Veronica snorts in agreement.

“Good call. Best not to wake the rage monster. Do you think your parents found out, and that’s why they shipped her off?”

Betty pauses. “I… I’m not sure. You can only get married at seventeen with parent permission, and there’s no way my parents or the Blossoms would ever agree to that. And… my dad says they sent her away because they thought she was suicidal, after Jason went missing.”

Veronica winces. “Are you sure she’s going to be okay to talk to you?”

Betty shrugs helplessly. “I have no idea, but there isn’t any other way to contact her, and I have to try. I haven’t seen her since June. I hope she’s not mad at me- who knows what Mom’s been telling her.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t blame you for anything,” Veronica squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. “You didn’t even know what was going on.”

“Yeah, but I could have paid more attention.” Betty stares out the window. “I just… I feel like a crappy sister. Polly and I… we’re really different, but she’s always looked out for me. I could have at least tried to help her and Jason before it was too late.”

Veronica doesn’t think that’s fair; Betty was just a freshman last spring, and heavily sheltered by her parents, at that. But she also thinks Betty sounds eerily like Cheryl’s speech, in this moment- she’s not the only one to feel like she failed a sibling. At least Polly’s relatively safe with the Sisters. She could be in danger from whoever killed Jason.

The driver drops them off in front of The Sisters of Quiet Mercy, an imposing brick building that looks like an old school, covered in ivy. A statue of a teenage girl kneeling in somber prayer stands in front of the entrance. “Charming,” Veronica says under her breath, and then glances at Betty. “Ready?”

Betty looks stricken, but then seems to steel herself. “Let’s go.” They walk up the steep steps and into the building. The lobby resembles that of a hospital, and is nearly silent, aside from the secretary typing at the front desk. Veronica looks around with raised eyebrows at the solemn pictures of past Sisters hanging on the walls, and follows Betty over to the desk.

“Hi,” Betty says nervously, pulling out her school ID. “I’m here to see my sister, Pol- Mary Cooper,” she corrects herself with a small nod. Veronica had no idea Polly was a nickname, but since Betty is short for Elizabeth… Both Cooper sisters have such mature, serious names, and such girlish, quaint nicknames. It’s like their parents wanted to keep them little kids forever.

The secretary skeptically views Betty’s ID. “You’re not on the list of approved visitors for Miss Cooper. You’ll have to come back another time.”

“But I’m her sister!” Betty exclaims. 

The woman frowns. “And the only approved visitor for your sister is Alice Cooper.”

Betty’s dad isn’t approved for visits either? Veronica doesn’t waste time pondering that. Instead she pulls out her wallet, and with a cheery smile, slides a fifty dollar bill over to the woman. “I think that should buy us an hour, right?” She stares down the secretary, who glares from the bribe to her to Betty before snatching up the fifty.

“One hour. If you’re not off the property by then I’ll call security. Miss Cooper is outside in the Garden of Deliverance; it’s silent reflection time.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Veronica chirps, and pulls Betty along with her down the echoing hall. The building is still eerily quiet, with only the occasional sound of footsteps. They pass one room where loud crying can clearly be heard, and another where a tattooed teenage girl is arguing in hushed tones with a woman who must be her mother.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Betty says breathlessly. “I mean it, Veronica. That was-,”

“That’s what rich friends are for,” Veronica shrugs. “Besides, it’s better than blowing it on shoes again. Think of it as a donation to the betterment of our troubled youth.” She smirks as they push open a door leading outside and into the overcast afternoon. The garden is immaculate and well-tended, although the summer flowers are beginning to fade as fall sets in. 

Several girls wander around or sit on benches. Most look completely miserable, and they all wear the same outfit, a plain blue, shapeless dress, and a maroon cardigan. Betty looks around anxiously, until she grabs Veronica’s hand. “I think that’s her.”

A blonde girl, her back turned to them, is standing by a quietly burbling fountain. Her hair is much longer than Betty’s nearly down to her waist, and pulled back with a neat headband. Veronica can feel Betty tense beside her. “Hey,” she says in what she hopes is a comforting manner. “No matter what happens or has happened, she’s still your sister. You guys love each other. Don’t worry.”

Betty smiles briefly, and then they walk over to the blonde girl. “Polly?” Betty calls out tentatively.

The girl whirls around in surprise, and Veronica immediately notes that she looks similar enough to Betty that the family resemblance is obvious, although she has a rounder, softer face and bigger eyes, although their hair is the exact same shade of platinum blonde and both have the distinctively green Cooper eyes. Polly is an inch or two taller, as well, even in plain flats, and-

“Oh my god, Polly?!” Betty says shrilly, and Veronica realizes what she’s calling attention to- the small, but nonetheless noticeable, bump to Polly’s midsection. She’s pregnant.

Polly stares at them both for a moment, stunned, before her expression crumples and she makes a small sobbing sound, embracing Betty. “I knew you’d come.”

Betty hesitantly hugs her back, looking over to Veronica in shock. Veronica supposes it shouldn’t be that shocking- it definitely explains why the Coopers wanted Polly out of the public eye, and didn’t want Betty to see her, but… The whole ‘packing your pregnant-out-of-wedlock daughter off to a convent’ thing is a little 1950s, isn’t it? After all, they can’t stop Polly from keeping the baby.

“You’re… you’re pregnant,” Betty says weakly when she and Polly break apart, still holding hands.

Polly nods, sniffing. “I am. It’s Jason’s, Bets. Our baby.”

Veronica has a sudden, paralyzing suspicion. Does Polly know? That Jason is dead? After all, she has no access to the outside world here. What if Mrs. Cooper didn’t tell her? Betty is still speechless. Polly seems to brace slightly, as if waiting for an outburst, and says, weakly, “I… please don’t be mad, Betty. I really want this. I do.”

“I… of course I’m not mad,” Betty stammers, “I just- um, sorry, Polly, this is Veronica, my friend. She’s new in Riverdale.”

Veronica gives a tiny wave. “I can… go, if you guys want some privacy-,”

“It’s fine,” Polly says hurriedly. “I… it’s so nice to be around people again, who aren’t… here.”

“When did you… find out?” Betty asks her sister.

“A week before school let out for the summer,” Polly smiles faintly. “I… we both freaked out, but then it just… solidified everything. We knew we had to get away from everything. From everyone, Betty. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but if Mom and Dad found out… and then they did.” She looks distraught. 

“I don’t know what went wrong. Jason and I were supposed to meet off of Route 40. But then- he wasn’t there. I waited for hours, and then Mom showed up, and made me get in the car… and drove me straight here. She found the pregnancy test, going through my trash- she flipped out, Betty. You’ve never seen her like that. I thought she was going to strangle me or something. She was screaming about how she couldn’t believe how stupid I was, how I was throwing away my future, how she was so ashamed…” Polly’s voice cracks slightly.

Betty wraps an arm around her sister’s shaking shoulders. “They shouldn’t have locked you up here, Polly. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should never have got in that car with Mom,” Polly says shakily. “I- I should have just run into the woods or something. She… she and Dad, they both- they don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like to love someone the way Jason and I love each other. I’d do anything for him, and he’d do anything for me.”

Polly doesn’t sound suicidal or mentally ill or unstable to Veronica. She sounds like a naive, deluded girl who’s desperately clinging onto her last bit of hope- that her boyfriend really does love her, and that he’s coming to get her. That they really were going to run away together, and be happy, and have a baby, and get married. She sounds like someone grasping at straws in the dark.

Betty exchanges a look with Veronica. “Polly… there’s something you… Jason…”

“Does he know where I am?” Polly demands, cradling her bump with both hands. “He’s going to get us out of here, right? It’s not too late. There’s months and months before the baby comes- we can still make it. We can still get out of here. Away from Mom, and Dad, and his parents, and Riverdale- we can still go.” Tears are brimming in her eyes like she already knows. Like she suspects.

“Polly, Jason died,” Betty says in a voice barely above a whisper. “In July. He… someone shot him. They just found his body a few weeks ago.”

Polly just looks at her blankly for a moment, before it sinks in and she gasps as if punched, then falls to her knees, sobbing. “I- no, he’s not- he can’t- he promised, he promised it was okay-,”

Veronica glances around and sees a nun hurrying towards them as Betty kneels down next to her hysterical sister, pulling her close, murmuring apologies.


	27. Chapter 27

Archie is sitting in the car next to Dad, staring out the window and into the dark parking lot. He should probably be inside right now, practicing with Josie and Melody. The show starts in an hour. But Dad wants to… talk and Archie is just… sitting here, waiting for that to actually happen. He feels a little better, even though it hasn’t been a full week without Jennifer. He feels a little better when he’s keeping busy, so that’s what he’s doing.

Secretly he’s glad Mom couldn’t come down this weekend. She’d probably know something was wrong and pry it out of him. Dad just chalks it up to teenage angst, and he’s not exactly wrong. Archie doesn’t want to be understood or reasoned with. He just wants to forget any of it ever happened. He just wants to play bass under the hot stage lights and lose himself in the stinging throb of Josie’s purring voice. 

“So,” Dad says, finally turning off the truck’s engine. “Me and Hermione. How do… are you okay with this?”

Archie shrugs. “Are you like… dating now?”

“Well,” Dad drums his fingers on the dashboard. “She works with me now, so we’re just… seeing how it goes. We’re friends. You know I… it’s nice to have another adult to talk to, sometimes, who’s not an 18 year old construction worker,” he chuckles, a bit weakly.

“Yeah,” says Archie. Truth be told, he really doesn’t care. A year ago he was still convinced Mom and Dad were getting back together, but lately he’s had way bigger concerns than his parents’ faltering marriage. If Dad wants his blessing to go out with other women, fine. He’d prefer it not be Veronica’s mother, but… Irony seems to be having a lot of fun with him lately.

“I just want you to know that this isn’t something serious,” Dad says. “Okay? I don’t want you to worry about… having a stepmother or everything changing or anything, Arch. It’s still just you and me, bud, okay?”

“Okay,” Archie nods, and opens up the door. “I gotta get inside, Dad, Josie’s gonna kill me.”

“Break a leg!” Dad calls after him good-naturedly.

Josie certainly looks like she wants to break his leg, if not his entire face, when he meets her in the rehearsal room behind the auditorium.

“Where the hell were you?” she snaps, as he unpacks his guitar. 

“My dad had to talk to me about something.”

“Well my dad is currently sitting in the front row, waiting to judge the shit out of me!” she hisses. Archie glances at Melody, who just mouths ‘go with it’, and doesn’t argue with Josie. All he knows about Myles McCoy is that he’s a mildly famous jazz musician and that apparently he makes Mayor McCoy look like a mellow, laid-back parent in comparison. It’s not hard to see where Josie got the neuroticism from. 

The show… goes well. Archie’s decent on the guitar, but he knows he doesn’t have Valerie’s… flair. There’s just… when she plays, it seems like the instrument is connected to her, cliche as it sounds. She’s got real, natural talent. But she’s not here tonight, probably still furious with Josie. Archie doesn’t really blame her. Josie’s got good intuition and plenty of ambition, but she’s self-centered and controlling, even if she loves music and her friends. 

Still, when he scans the crowd at the end of the show, first glancing at Dad and Hermione Lodge, clapping and smiling, and then at Mayor McCoy, and sees that the seat beside her is empty… Josie doesn’t deserve that, either, no matter how much of a bitch she’s been lately. He looks over at Josie, watches her cool, professional smile fade when she realizes that her dad’s apparently walked out.

He doesn’t really want to talk to Dad and Veronica’s mom right now, besides the fact that he knows Veronica is around here somewhere, probably glaring daggers at his dad, and he has no idea where the hell Betty and Jughead even are… He’s pretty sure Betty may have stolen his best friend, if that’s even possible. His best friend stole his other best friend. He probably deserves it, after everything.

But that doesn’t mean Archie can’t hear the fight Josie is having with her dad just outside.

“You never…”

“That girl was the real talent in your group, at least she had some artistic integrity-,”

“That’s so not fair, Dad, I work really hard-”

“Obviously not hard enough, prancing around on stage like some Beyonce knockoff.”

There’s silence for a few moments and then Archie shoulders his guitar case and stands up as Josie storms back into the room, slamming the door behind her. 

“Hey,” he says.

She ignores him, pulling out her phone.

“Josie!”

“What,” Josie snarls, ripping off her cat ears headband- thank Christ she didn’t make him wear one- and stuffing it in her bag. 

“Your dad’s an asshole,” Archie says flatly, and his face doesn’t heat up, to his relief. “You’re a great singer. You have a lot of talent. Just because you’re not just like him doesn’t mean the Pussycats are worthless. It’s your fucking band, right? You made it. How many seventeen year olds can say that? You guys have like, 10,000 subscribers on YouTube. That’s fucking amazing.”

He feels good, for some reason. Like this was also partially directed at him, although none of that’s true about him. He doesn’t have what Josie has. But he does know what it’s like to have someone you love, whose affection you desperately crave, make you feel small and stupid and insignificant. And he never wants anyone to feel that way again. No one deserves that.

Josie just stares at him for a few moments. This is probably the most he’s ever said at one time in front of her. Then she gives a small, twisted up little smile. “Yeah. It is. And I sure as hell don’t need his seal of approval.” She taps on her phone, and then lifts it to her ear. “I’m calling Valerie.”

“Good,” says Archie. “Because her bass playing blows mine out of the water.”

“Yeah,” says Josie bluntly, waiting for it to pick up, “but you still did good out there, Andrews. I mean it. So thanks.”

“No… no problem.” He backs out of the room as Valerie finally answers her phone, and Josie launches into her campaign speech as to why she needs her back in the group.

Veronica is leaning against the wall at the corner of the hallway, tapping a heeled boot on the floor. 

“Hey,” says Archie.

“You were great,” she smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Your dad’s out in the lobby… with my mom.”

Archie sighs. “Veronica, look, I don’t....”

“It’s fine,” she shrugs brittly, indicating that it is very much not fine, actually. “Whatever. They’re both adults. They can do what they want.”

“I guess so,” Archie runs his hand nervously up and down the strap of his case. “Thanks for coming to see me… anyways.”

“I sat with Kevin. He was very impressed,” she gives a small smirk. “Betty’s out with Jughead… trying to find some lost car or something? She was pretty vague. Something about her sister’s and Jason’s great Riverdale escape plan.”

Archie glances at the nearest emergency exit; it’s a cold, damp night, and the wind is picking up. “Her mom’s gonna kill her.” 

One time Mrs. Cooper chewed him out because he and Betty came home 10 minutes late from the bowling alley. He can only imagine her response to Betty still being out at ten o’clock at night with Jughead Jones, looking for evidence in a murder investigation. The Betty he knows wouldn’t dare. Then again, Betty’s not the same person she was a month ago. Maybe none of them are.

“Well,” says Veronica, checking her phone, “apparently she had a massive blow out fight with her parents about the whole…. Polly being pregnant thing.”

“Polly’s pregnant?” Archie frowns in surprise, although maybe it’s not that surprising. Seems like a natural consequence of overbearing parenting, if you ask him.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Veronica puts a finger to her lips. “I’m serious. Don’t go around spreading the word, or Betty’s mom will hunt us all down. But yeah. That’s why they got her the hell out of dodge. Didn’t want to be That Family, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Archie nods slowly, still processing this. “Um… Guess I’ll go find my dad, then.” 

As he makes his way into the lobby, his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s Mom, looking to talk. She always tends to call late at night, and she is an hour behind them, in Chicago… He sees Dad standing and talking with Hermione by a trophy case. Dad looks years younger, smiling openly and with an almost adolescent, bashful slouch to his tall frame. Hermione Lodge, for her part, is coyly smiling like a teenage girl.

“Archie!” Dad pulls him into a warm hug, and Hermione smiles at him. “You were great up there, kid. Brought back memories of when I was in that band in high school…”

“The Fredheads,” Hermione rolls her eyes. “Oh, I remember the places you and FP Jones used to play…”

Dad looks momentarily uncomfortable at the mention of FP, but brushes it off. “You wanna get a late night snack, Arch? You must be thirsty after being up on that stage.”

“Um,” Archie really doesn’t want to bear witness to Dad’s high school reminiscing, as if he wasn’t dating Mom back then. “Actually, Mom wants to call me, so I was thinking… you could drop me off at home, and go out yourselves.”

“Are you sure?” Dad frowns. 

“Yeah, I haven’t talked to her in a while, so…”

“Well,” Hermione says, “I think you played very well up there, Archie. It’s nice to see all the young talent Riverdale has to offer. A real sense of community.” She seems earnest enough, and Archie is trying really hard not to pull the sullen teenage boy act right now. 

“Thanks,” he says with a small grin. 

Mom picks up on the first ring, as he sits on the couch in the dark house with Vegas’ head in his lap, twitching in his sleep. “Archie! Glad I caught you,” she says in relief. “You’re not too tired to talk?”

“I’m fine,” he shrugs, even though she can’t see him.

“Good. I am really sorry I couldn’t make it back this weekend like we planned… there’s just so much going on.”

“It’s okay, Mom. Really. I get it.” He doesn’t, but he can pretend. 

“So how’d it go? Your big performance?”

“Pretty good. Um… Josie’s dad walked out during it, so she was pretty upset afterwards…”

Mom clicks her tongue. “That Myles has always been a real piece of work. I don’t know what Sierra ever saw in him.”

“Yeah… but it was good, I guess. I think she’s trying to get Valerie back in the band.”

They talk a bit more about music stuff, and she tells him about some play she just saw with a few fellow law students, and then, somewhat hesitant, asks about Dad. “So… your father told me he’s started seeing someone. Casually. Hermione Lodge.”

Archie exhales through his nostrils. “Yeah. Didn’t you guys all… go to high school together?”

He can practically sense his mother stiffen through the phone line. “Well. Yes. She was a junior when I was a freshman and he was a sophomore. We weren’t… close friends, but we all knew each other. Hermione was a cheerleader, very outgoing, very bubbly. In fact, she was good friends with Alice Cooper- well, she was Alice Smith, then.”

Archie has a hard time picturing Alice Cooper, nee Smith, as anything approximating a giggly teenage girl. All he can come up with is some weird version of Betty with an 80s perm. “Wow. Did you… did you like her?”

“Hermione? I suppose. I never had anything bad to say about her. I was very quiet in high school, Archie. A bit of a bookworm, I guess. Your father was the big man on campus, of course, with the football and the band and the parties, and I mostly kept to myself before… before we got together.”

Archie picks at something in Vegas’ fur. “Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“How come you and Dad… did get together? I mean… if it didn’t work out. And all.” He shouldn’t even have asked that. What does he expect? Some long breakdown of their relationship? It doesn’t matter. When Mom graduates from law school, they’re most likely getting a divorce. She’ll probably stay in Chicago. It’s never going to go back to the way things used to be.

“Oh, Archie…” she sighs. “Your dad and I still care about each other, you know. And I’m not angry with him for… moving on. It’s healthy. I would never hold that against him, or you. I know I haven’t… I haven’t been there. But I will. Soon. Your dad… your dad and I got together because we loved each other. We were very different, but we worked, back then. It was high school, honey. Everything is very simple in high school.” 

Archie couldn’t disagree more.

She continues. “You just do what feels natural. He brought me out of my shell, and I like to think I deflated his ego a little. We helped each other become the adults we are today. Just because we’re not… good for each other anymore, doesn’t mean that was never true. Neither of us regrets any of it, sweetie. We got married, maybe a little too young, but then we had you, Archie. And you were the best thing that ever happened to us.”

Right. The best thing to ever happen to them. That’s why Mom’s in law school right now and Dad’s managing increasingly shittier construction jobs. Because he was such a fantastic addition to their lives. Still, he shoves down the bitterness enough to get off the phone with her, and then just lies down on the couch with his dog, listening to the soft buzz of the TV.


	28. Chapter 28

Jughead is looking for a flashlight in the kitchen when Dad comes home. He ignores the groan of the door opening and the sound of Dad throwing his jacket on the couch, and only when his father comes into the little cluttered, dimly lit kitchen does he suddenly straighten up, smashing his head against the countertop in the process. “Fuck!”

Massaging his head, he stares balefully at Dad, who looks amused. “Easy there, Jug. Didn’t think you’d be home- you been out a lot lately.”

Right. Like Dad ever knows where the hell he’s been. Jughead’s only been home to sleep lately, and even that’s just because he can’t crash at the drive-in anymore. “I’ve been busy,” he says, trying to ascertain whether or not Dad’s drunk or just a little buzzed, “school stuff.”

“Huh,” says Dad, who does not seem like he believes this for a second, leaning against the corner of the wall. “Been smoking a lot less, too. Doesn’t smell like fuckin’ Woodstock in here so much.”

He’s right about that. Jughead has been smoking less at home, since he hasn’t been home, and also because the last time he smoked he thought about Betty Archie and his mom and Jellybean and cried, which was... 100% a result of the weed, he thinks, but still. It was pathetic. “Like I said, school stuff.” His head hurts a little less, although it’s still throbbing.

“Nah, I’m glad,” Dad says. “That shit’ll rot your brain. Take it from your old man,” he chuckles dryly. “I would know.” 

Dad’s been drinking since around the sixth grade and probably smoking, both cigarettes and blunts, since the eighth grade, so he probably really would know. It was the drinking Mom hated. She smoked cigarettes too, compulsively, pack after pack, although never in the house- she’d smoke them outside with Dad sometimes after dinner, while Jughead and Jellybean watched TV. 

She didn’t mind the weed, either, even if she didn’t do it anymore. But the drinking. That really pissed her off. The way Dad got when he was drunk, either laughing uncontrollably, everything a great joke, or fucking enraged at the slightest provocation. The longest he ever went sober was three months. She left with Jellybean two months after he started up again. 

“So you got a girl now, or what?” Dad asks in a deceptively casual tone as Jughead rifles through the drawers and finally pulls out a flashlight that works, shoving it in his jacket pocket.

“No,” he says sharply, “who told you that? Sweet Pea?”

Sweet Pea is this kid, well, teenager, really, who sometimes comes around to drop stuff or or pick stuff up. Jughead doesn’t know what his real name is, but he knows he’s a runner for Dad, and probably something of an informant, too. He’s got a baby face, despite his gangly frame, and this cherubic little smile that Jughead doesn’t buy for an instant. He’s seen him around Northside before, too, like he’s just looking for someone to start something so he’ll have an excuse. Probably be doing time before his eighteenth birthday. Dad already bailed him out once for assault. 

“I like to think I can ask my own kid this shit without having to send out spies,” Dad snorts. “It’s not a big deal, Jug. Granted, people might not be too happy to hear you hooked up with some Northside girl, but-,”

“I’m not,” Jughead snaps, “we’re- I don’t know what you heard, but we’re not. Together. At all. I work on the school paper with her. That’s it.”

“Heard you got into a little rumble with that Mantle shithead and a few of his buddies under the bridge last week,” Dad counters. “And that a little Cooper girl was there. That her?”

Jughead is defiantly silent. Dad’s got- he’s got no fucking right to suddenly develop an interest in Jughead’s social life. Like he’d ever- even if he ever had a girlfriend, he wouldn’t be bringing them home for a cute little family dinner, would he? He tries to imagine Betty’s reaction to meeting FP Jones in the flesh, and can practically hear Alice Cooper shrieking her head off already.

“Look,” Dad slouches down in an almost juvenile into one of the battered kitchen chairs. “Not trying to tell you to who to hang out with, Jug. You don’t want to run with Serpents, I respect that. Not sure I- not sure I’d want you hanging around with the likes of DeSantos and Fogarty anyways. They’re not like you. You got potential. You’re smart. Gonna do some great things with that big brain of yours.” He pauses, and nods tiredly at the fridge. “Get me an Adams, would ya?”

Jughead does so, even if he feels like flinging it at him, because he knows better. It’s been quiet between them for a while now, and he’d prefer to keep it that way, rather than have a repeat of last spring. Dad pops off the cap and takes a drink. “You want one?” Jughead shakes his head minutely. “Figured.”

“As I was saying,” Dad continues. “I’m not gonna… look, I remember what it was like to be fifteen and horny, alright? Heart wants what it wants. You’re a good-looking boy, smart, quiet- girls love that, believe me. Wouldn’t know- I could never keep my fucking mouth shut, but I knew plenty of guys like you.” 

He exhales. “But you gotta- people talk, alright? Northsiders, they’re nice to your face, but behind your back… I’m glad you got friends up there. But you get involved with that girl, her parents find out, it becomes a problem. Not just for them. For you. I’m just trying to look out for you, Jug. I’m sure she’s a sweet little thing, real polite, real soft-spoken, very gentle.”

Jughead thinks of Betty Cooper, pepper spray wielder, breaking and enterer, evidence gatherer, ‘search a dead boy’s room during his own funeral’, and thinks Dad probably couldn’t be more wrong. Betty might be soft, but only to a certain point. She can bend, but she won’t break. She always snaps back, like a rubber band, and when she does, she makes whoever tried to break her in the first place hurt like hell. 

Jesus Christ, if she really was a sweet little thing he wouldn’t be in this fucking situation because it’d be a lot easier to just ignore her wide green eyes and bouncy blonde ponytail. No, instead she had to be silk hiding steel, so to speak, and now he’s got an intense crush and they hid together in a closet a few days ago and he just barely managed to conceal the raging erection.

This is really, really bad. Even more so because she has to know- not necessarily that he has a crush, but the way she looked at him- it wasn’t a safe look, okay? It was a ‘I think I want to know you’ look, and he doesn't want to be known. Especially not by her. He just wants to find out what happened to Jason, write his book, and get the fuck out of here before he gets trapped like everyone else.

He still says nothing.

“I knew her mom,” Dad says, “long time ago. I know how she thinks. Anything- and I mean anything- happens with that girl, she’ll find a way to blame you for it. You don’t wanna be the Coopers’ whipping boy, you hear? Last one ended up dead in the river,” he smiles almost sardonically and Jughead feels such an intense rush of fury that he almost says something, but swallows hard instead.

“We’re not together,” he repeats after a moment. “I don’t- she’s not interested in me like that. And I’m not… either. She likes Archie. She’s had a crush on him since we were little.” Sure. That was true a month ago. He almost wishes it were still true. At least things were more predictable, more even then. Betty likes Archie. Archie’s oblivious. Jughead just keeps his goddamn head down. And then Veronica showed up and they found Jason and now everything’s fucked up.

“Does she?” Dad doesn’t sound too convinced, but he takes another sip of his beer. “Real ladies man, that kid. Just like his dad. Yeah. Girls used to fucking throw themselves at Freddy-boy. Football star. Good family. Nice car- not as nice as mine, though.” He pauses, lost in thought and the Sam Adams. 

“I gotta go,” Jughead says suddenly. “I… group project. Lot of work to do.”

“You need a ride somewhere?”

“No,” he says curtly, grabbing his backpack off the cracked linoleum counter. “I’m good.”

“You writing about the Blossom kid, in that school paper?” Dad calls lightly after him. 

Jughead freezes in the doorway. “No,” he lies, flatly.

“Good,” says Dad, unmoving in the kitchen. “Best not to get involved in that shit-show.”

He doesn’t have a bike, so he settles for standing on the back of Betty’s while she pedals furiously towards Route 40, a back-road out of town running towards Greendale. “My mom thinks I’m at the Variety Show with V,” she says breathlessly, while he holds onto her shoulders and envisions them both colliding with a stop sign she blows by. 

“Are you sure this is the place?” he asks as she slows down and they run onto the silent road. There aren’t any street lights, and they’re faced with a dense treeline on both side, shrouded by towering pines. Any sounds of traffic have long since faded away; this section of highway is rarely used nowadays. If Jughead squints, he can just barely make out the river gleaming in the moonlight through the foliage. 

“She said off of Route 40,” Betty parks her bike in the gravel along the roadside, and pulls out her phone, turning on the flashlight app. “I think they had a car hidden in the woods.” Without much hesitation, she heads into the trees, and Jughead rolls his eyes in exasperation before hurrying after her. 

“Let me go first.” She has no idea what she’s doing. He spent his childhood running around in the woods with Archie; from the way Betty tells it, she spent her childhood in mandatory ballet lessons and math camp. 

“No,” says Betty, indignantly, scrambling down the embankment. 

“You’re going to twist your ankle,” he mutters; who wears flats and leggings while looking for an abandoned car in the woods?

“I had to look like I was going to a talent show, not biking down Route 40,” she snaps back, and promptly trips over a fallen branch.

Jughead grabs her hand, and she squeezes it sharply without turning back to look at him. He lets go, sucking in a breath of cold night air. He’s oddly resentful of her, and he has no idea why. It’s not because he doesn’t think she’s attracted to him. Maybe it’s because of what Dad said. Maybe he’s just upset he has to think about any of this at all. She seems almost annoyed with him too, as if she’s feeding off his broodiness.

Great. He’s somehow managed to drag bubbly Betty into the same self-loathing whirlpool. He’s an amazing influence on her, apparently.

“There,” she says suddenly, jerking her head in the direction of what at first looks like a discarded fort or lean-to. Upon closer inspection, someone has dragged a bunch of branches and underbrush over a junky looking car. Jughead feels for the door handle, and jiggles it; it pops right open, and the beam of his flashlight catches the keys on the seat.

“They left the keys right with it?”

“She could have left on her own,” Jughead mutters. “Polly, I mean. The keys were here.”

“She would have had to get it back on the road herself,” Betty sounds doubtful. “She was waiting for him for hours, she said. I know Polly. She’d never have left without him.”

Jughead pokes his head in and peers around the backseat, then freezes.

“What is it?” Betty demands as he backs away.

“They didn’t just pack a few sweatshirts and some granola bars,” he says darkly. “They’ve got… other stuff as well.”

“Weed?” Her face is eerily pale in the darkness.

“Harder than that,” he mutters. “We have to take some pictures and show them to Sheriff Keller. Come on.”

They do so, popping the trunk as well, and Betty bites her lip at the stroller folded up inside. They probably found it out on the curb somewhere, labeled FREE. “They really did want to keep the baby, together.” Her voice is small and sad. 

“Then maybe they should have used a condom, graduated high school, and gotten married,” Jughead says sarcastically, and part of him is glad she turns on him immediately- he wants this, he wants to ruin things, he wants them to be back to awkward acquaintances with nothing in common, he doesn’t want her to ever look at him again or take his hand or-

“Fuck you,” she hisses instead, and her eyes are welling with tears. “You think I didn’t already hear that from my parents last night! No one believed in them! No one! Just like how no one believes in me, or you-,”

“That is not the same thing at all,” he says coldly, “you’re not Polly, and I’m- I am nothing like Jason-,”

“Not like that, you idiot!” she shoves him, not hard, but enough that he rocks a step back in surprise. “I’m talking about- they were doing this because their family made them feel like they were just young and stupid and couldn’t be trusted to know what was right for them-,”

“Well, maybe they didn’t,” he interrupts her roughly. “Have you ever thought about that, Betty? Maybe they were young and stupid, and maybe we’re all young and stupid, because that’s just how life works-,”

She kisses him, angrily, and her lips are wet and soft and so entirely unexpected he’s almost paralyzed for a moment before he kisses her back, ratty sneakers squelching in the mud, and she backs into the open trunk before her fingers dig into the shoulders of his jacket. He turns away from her and she lets go.

“What the hell was that?” he demands hoarsely.

Betty is completely silent.

“I- you-,”

“You wanted to,” she says, in a low, almost accusatory tone, and Jughead contemplates yet another lie for a moment before he looks back at her and says plainly, “I did.”

Then he kisses her, with considerably less anger, and his hands find her waist and tentatively stay there, ready to flee at any moment. After a minute, her own hands come down from his shoulders and hold them there, in place, like she’s afraid he really will let go, and then it will be over, and it will never have happened at all.


	29. Chapter 29

Betty wakes up from the weirdest dream about making out with Jughead Jones in the woods to find her mother looming over her bed. This isn’t that unusual- Mom is nothing if not an early riser- and yawns blearily, “Mom?”

“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Mom says in a voice dripping with mock cheer, “would you care to explain why I just got off the phone with the sheriff regarding you finding a car full of narcotics off of Route 40 last night?”

Shit shit shit. Last night. The woods. Jughead. It wasn’t a really weird dream. Betty feels a rush of nausea as she frantically tries to recall everything that happened after they stopped…. doing... that… and sent the photos to Kevin, who said he’d show them to his dad. They… well, they got back on her bike and rode to Pop’s, where she let Jughead off, not making eye contact, and then pedaled home. 

Mom is still ranting furiously, “-and the car’s been torched, apparently, so God knows who could have been out there stalking you-,”

“What?” Betty demands, kicking back the covers with some difficulty and scrambling up onto her knees in bed. “Someone burned the car?”

“Yes,” Mom says sardonically, tone making it clear that the burnt out car full of drugs is now the least of her concerns, “someone burned the car. Probably one of those murderous Blossoms, watching you and JUGHEAD JONES in the woods.”

Betty feels that the shrill enunciation of Jughead’s name was a little unnecessary, but knows better than to leap into an impassioned defense at the moment. “Mom,” she says placatingly, “I know I lied to you and Dad, and that wasn’t fair, but we were just trying to help the case.”

“Just trying to help the case?” Mom barks a laugh of disbelief. “Well, Betty, you certainly haven’t done much to help your sister! Since my first call of the morning was from the Sisters of Silent Mercy, informing me that after your little impromptu visit on Friday, your sister started acting strangely, and is now missing!”

Betty sucks in a breath, feeling like she just got socked in the stomach. “Polly’s missing?”

“She disappeared during dinner yesterday evening,” some of Mom’s fury has now fizzled to plain old hysteria, and she turns away as if she can’t even look at Betty right now, digging her hands into her blouse. “She didn’t take anything from her room besides a change of clothes, and now my seventeen year old daughter is God knows where, four months pregnant-,”

“You lied to me,” Betty stands up, fists clenching at her sides. “You didn’t tell me she was pregnant!”

“And you’ve been lying to me for weeks, Elizabeth,” Mom snaps back, “sneaking off with that Jones boy, playing detective-,”

“Like you’re any better, with your stupid editorials about Jason and Cheryl,” Betty retorts. She feels like throwing her stupid frilly bedside lamp at Mom’s head. “Polly needed you, and you threw her away! Like a- like a used up tissue or something, because she wasn’t your perfect daughter anymore!”

“How dare you,” Mom whirls on her, white-faced, eyes flashing. “Everything I have done has been in your sister’s best interests, and you know it-,”

“Yeah?” Betty says shrilly, “So explain to me how dropping her off at a convent, not telling her the father of her baby is dead, and treating her like a lunatic in an insane asylum has been helping her, Mom! Because she didn’t seem very at peace when I saw her!”

“I couldn’t keep her in this house, cutting herself, refusing to eat, not speaking to anyone-,” Mom runs a hand through her blonde hair. “Betty, she was beyond our help. She was going to hurt herself and the baby.”

“She was going to run away with Jason, so they could be happy!”

Mom looks upward as if in hysterical exasperation. “Elizabeth- this isn’t some movie! She barely KNEW Jason! She is a child, just like you are a child- what would they have done? Motel hopped on his drug money? Gone to live in some tent city somewhere?”

“You had no right to decide that for her,” Betty says flatly. “She’s almost eighteen, if she’s old enough to have a baby-,”

“She is NOT OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE A CHILD!” Mom explodes. “SHE IS A CHILD! SHE IS A LITTLE GIRL, BETTY!” Her voice drops slightly, wavering, “MY little girl, and I’m sorry you feel betrayed, I’m sorry I’m such a monster to you, but if- if Polly was going to have the baby, she needed to be somewhere safe. Somewhere stable. And that was not this town. Not anymore.”

Betty says nothing, gaze flickering around Mom’s pastel form to the plush rug on the floor to the stupid pink walls to the all white furniture of her room. Suddenly she hates all of it. She hates her floral bedspread and her gauzy curtains and her cutesy calendar on the door and the framed picture of her and Mom and Dad and Polly at the county fair when she was ten and Polly was twelve. It all feels fake. Like this whole time they were just pretending to be happy and normal and to love each other. 

“You know what, Mom?” she whispers, a deep well of loathing rushing up her throat like bile. “If anything bad happens to Polly, it’s not going to be my fault. It will be yours. Because when she needed you, you threw her out.”

Mom makes a noise like a gasp and Betty looks up at her, and for a split second is convinced Mom is about to slap her; her hand seems to twitch at her side, but it doesn’t happen. Mom inhales sharply, and says in a cold, clipped tone. “Your behavior lately has been out of control. I don’t want you leaving this house without my say-so for the entire month of October. Consider yourself lucky I’m not taking that phone.”

Betty resists the urge to fling said phone at the door Mom slams shut behind her, and instead collapses back down onto the bed, shoving all thoughts of Jughead- and his mouth, which tasted like salt- out of her head. Right now she has way bigger problems then… whatever the hell she did last night. Like… what they found last night, and Polly being missing. She starts a chat with Kevin and Veronica to fill them in. 

**update- the getaway car got burned, so someone must have found out me and jughead found it. and polly’s missing.**

****

****

**yeah my dad’s freaking the fuck out lol. it’s bad.**

**betty wtf?!! and kevin how is this lol**

**it's an expression veronica. dark humor. embrace it.**

**kevin does your dad have any leads on who might have done it? or if anyone’s seen polly?**

**tbh i think polly is sus #1 bets.**

**why?**

**uh bc she conveniently broke out of the evil convent the same night the car got destroyed, and… who else would know it was there.**

**omfg. kevin you don’t really think betty’s sister did that.**

**polly would never. someone could have followed us.**

**i’m not saying she did it! but it looks bad. dad wants her found too. and... i hope your mom doesn’t have twitter.**

**why. the register does.**

**bc cherry bomb is on a twitter rampage accusing your sister of killing jason. she’s trying to get #pollywannamurder trending.**

Betty scrolls through her twitter feed in growing dismay for a few minutes before marching downstairs, still in her pajamas. Mom must have already left; Dad is by the door, putting on his coat. “Have you been on Twitter?” she asks him hesitantly, unsure of whether or not he heard her and Mom screaming at each other no more than fifteen minutes ago, although how could he not have- their house isn’t that big. 

“Your mother and I are holding a press conference at the Register’s office in a half hour,” he says curtly. “Don’t go out today, Betty. We want you at home. Where it’s safe.”

“About Cheryl’s tweets?” Betty lingers on the stairs, digging her nails into the bannister.

He opens the door. “About Jason Blossom impregnating your sister.” She can tell he’s gritting his teeth, even though he’s facing away from her. “The truth had to come out sometime, and it’s now or never. If they want to sic their lunatic daughter on Polly, they had better be prepared for the fallout.”

He leaves the house, and Betty wonders for a moment whether or not Cheryl knows about the pregnancy. Her parents probably don’t, but would Jason have confessed it to his twin? But she has a hard time picturing Cheryl not throwing that in her face way before this, if that’s true. There’s no way she could resist using that to get a reaction out of everyone. 

She stares at her phone for a few more minutes, hoping against hope to see a text from Polly, even though her sister hasn’t had a cell phone in months, before heading back upstairs. There’s not really anything she can do right now without risking a full on breakdown from Mom, and she still has Trig homework to do. 

Not wanting to see her parents’ public confession/accusation, she tries to stay off social media for the rest of the morning, and instead forces herself to take a shower, get dressed, and have some cereal while she does her homework in the kitchen, where she won’t be tempted to go online. It feels weirdly juvenile to sit there doing homework the way she used to in elementary school. 

She and Polly used to compete to see who could finish their homework the fastest, since they weren’t allowed to go play until it was all done. How many times did they sit here, kicking their feet, sorting through their papers and books under Mom’s watchful eye? Mom was always so… paranoid about doing everything ‘right’. About being Super-Mom, making sure they had straight As and plenty of useless extracurriculars and good clothes and neat hair.

“No one cared what I looked like when I went to school,” she’d always sniff while she tightened Betty’s ponytail. “My mother couldn’t have cared less if my hair was a mess or my shirt was stained or my shoes were falling apart. No one was checking my homework or signing my permission slips. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

To a point, Betty can understand. Mom never goes into detail about her childhood, but she grew up… well, poorer than Dad, at any rate. Not that Dad’s family was ever rich, but they were always… respectable. Maybe Mom’s just always felt like she had to prove herself, that she wasn’t trashy or dumb or clueless when it came to what her kids were doing. But there has to be some kind of middle ground, Betty thinks, between ‘uncaring’ and ‘breathing down your neck’.

Something pings against the kitchen window, and Betty looks up in alarm, checking the clock on the stove. It’s just past noon. She slips down from her stool and warily approached the window, only to see a familiar face staring back at her. “Jughead?” she mouths in surprise, and then waves him over to the front door, unlocking it and letting him in.

He somewhat cautiously steps inside. He looks like he barely slept; the shadows under his eyes are darker than usual, and his beanie is slightly askew, his clothes rumpled. “Hi,” he says, and Betty flushes bright red, because it is different now, even if she doesn’t want it to be. They kissed, and not just a shy little one-time peck, either. They… well, they kind of made out. It didn’t go any further than that, obviously, and they didn’t even- there was no tongue involved, but still!

They had… more than a moment. And she still can’t explain it. She doesn’t know why she kissed him. She just… did. She wanted to, and he was there, and she was so angry and scared and… it just happened. The fact that the attraction is still there, prickling uncomfortably under her skin, just complicates matters. It’d be one thing if they could just pretend it never happened. But it did. And, as ridiculous as it is, she’s still worried that whoever may or may not have been spying on them… saw the whole thing.

“Hi,” she says, belatedly. “I… I guess you’ve heard about everything by now.”

“Yeah,” he swallows, throat spasming. “Yep. Have I ever. I… I guess all we can do right now is try to find your sister before anyone else does.”

“I can’t-,” Betty wraps her arms around herself defensively. “My parents are furious with me, Jug. Like… the only reason I’m here by myself is because of the whole press conference thing. They’re going to be watching me like a hawk from now on.”

“You want to stop digging?” He’s not really making eye contact.

“No,” she blurts out, “I just- we have to be more careful. I can’t keep… sneaking out at night and stuff. It’s too risky. I mean- what if they sent me away too?” She doesn’t want to believe Mom and Dad would do that, but- she would never have believed they were hiding Polly’s pregnancy from her, either, and here they are.

“Right,” he agrees listlessly, hands in his pockets. He seems about to turn to go, and then says, “I’m sorry about last night.”

Betty stares at him. “You… you are?”

“You were upset,” Jughead shrugs, still not looking at her full-on. “I was… an asshole. I shouldn’t have… It’s not my place to say shit about your sister. Or Jason.”

“I- you weren’t doing it to hurt me,” Betty flushes even deeper. “You were- your heart was in the right place, Jughead. It always is. I shouldn’t have… I mean, that was… totally inappropriate. What I did. In response.”

He gives a stiff little nod, and then says in a barely audible voice. “I didn’t mind. You know. The kissing. ...If you couldn’t tell.”

She could definitely tell.

“I-,” Betty stands on the edge of safety, of telling him that it was all a big mistake and they should just forget about it, but they’ve always been honest with each other, haven’t they? “I didn’t- I didn’t mind either. I… I meant to do it. It wasn’t just… you know. To get back at you.”

“Oh,” he stands there in the doorway for another moment, and then the shadow of a smile crosses his face. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Betty says breathlessly. “Yeah. Um. See you in school tomorrow.”

He gives a sort of wave over his shoulder as he jogs down the neat front walk to the street. Betty stands in the doorway, watching him, and feels something seize and then relax in her chest.


	30. Chapter 30

Veronica spends most of her Sunday fighting with Cheryl on Twitter and ordering food, since she has zero desire to do any cooking, and a time honored tradition of feuding with Mom has always involved racking up credit card charges. Mom’s supposedly at work at Andrews Construction… or fucking Mr. Andrews. 

Either way, Veronica doesn’t want to think about it, so instead she texts Betty and Kevin and scrolls through social media and watches an ungodly amount of Netflix. She has Chem homework but the teacher barely checks it anyways, so she’s not that concerned.

Mom gets home at just past six, and the apartment suddenly feels much smaller as they both stalk around, avoiding one another and shutting doors loudly. Finally, Mom raps on her door frame. “Are you hungry?” Veronica is lounging on her bed, refreshing Instagram yet again.

“Not really.” She injects just enough curtness into her tone to prove her point, which is: I’m still furious with you, so don’t think this is all going to just wash away like everything else.

Mom exhales shortly. “Veronica. We can talk about this…”

“There’s really nothing to talk about,” Veronica rolls her eyes, not looking up from her phone. “You’re just going to do whatever the hell you want anyways.”

“I am not just doing ‘whatever the hell I want’,” Mom snaps. “I am doing this for us. For our family.”

“Wow, you’re sleeping with Fred Andrews for all our sakes?” Veronica asks mockingly. “How can I ever repay you, Mom?”

“I am not sleeping with him, Veronica!” Mom takes a step into the room. “Look at me.”

Veronica glances up at her, scowling.

“Fred Andrews is our best option right now. Your father is well aware of this, trust me.”

“What are you talking about?” Veronica says incredulously, sitting up straight in bed. “Our best option for what?”

“We need someone to develop the drive-in property.” Mom is looking at her head-on, unflinching, mouth set in a firm line. “And we need allies in this town, Veronica, if we’re ever going to have any semblance of success here. Fred Andrews is a well respected member of the community. People like him. More importantly, they trust him, and his business.”

“So what?” Veronica sputters. “Daddy gave you the go-ahead to… to what, seduce Mr. Andrews into agreeing to partner with Lodge Industries?”

“Fred doesn’t need any additional incentive,” Mom retorts, “his business is at a standstill, the books are a mess- I’ve seen them myself. He never did have a head for numbers. It’s probably been going downhill since Mary left- she used to handle the accounting. He needs this opportunity. And we need to win over the rest of the town. So we think locally. We start small.”

“This is bullshit,” Veronica sneers, “and you know it. We’re still basically pariahs- Mr. Andrews might trust you, but he’s never going to associate with Daddy-,”

“Oh, he will when he sees the contract we’re offering. Exclusive rights to develop all future Lodge properties,” Mom folds her arms across her silk dressing robe, lifting her chin almost proudly, “and I’m negotiating this time around, mija, not your father. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“So it’s all just politics?” Veronica narrows her eyes in disbelief. “Is that it, Mom? Do you even like Fred Andrews, or is this all just some game-,”

“It’s not a game, Veronica, it’s our livelihoods,” Mom cuts her off sharply. “I am not going to let the Lodge name go down in flames, and neither is your father. When he’s released from prison, we are going to start over. Here. There’s nothing left for us in the city. But in Riverdale, we can build ourselves back up- this will all be yours someday, Veronica. We’re securing your future.”

“As what?” Veronica snorts. “Mayor of some podunk town? Landlady extraordinaire?”

“Do you think Sierra McCoy is mayor of Riverdale because she just loves her hometown that much?” Mom demands. “Of course not, Veronica- she’s angling for the Senate! This is how these things start. Locally. It will take time, of course, but by the time you graduate from Princeton like your father-,”

“I’m not getting into Princeton, Mom,” Veronica rolls her eyes. “They don’t accept criminal’s daughters.”

“Would you just listen to me?!” Mom stares at her angrily. “I know you’re upset, mija. But all of this- this is all for you. For us. You just have to trust in your father and I. We want the best for you. For us. Things are difficult now, yes, but they won’t always be this way. This is just a minor setback. In a few years, it will be as if your father’s trial never even happened.” 

She takes another few steps forward and sits down on the edge of Veronica’s bed, taking her hand. “You are the most precious thing in the world to us. We’re investing in your future, right now.”

Maybe Mom thought that little pep talk was going to smooth everything over, and in a way, it has- Veronica’s still angry, of course, but she knows Mom meant every word she said, at least when she was talking about ‘their future’. It’s not like… it’s not like Mom doesn’t love her. Veronica knows she does. She just thinks, in the moment, sometimes, that Mom loves herself and Daddy a little bit more. 

She wishes Daddy were here. She might be upset with him too, but for all her snarky remarks, she’s still always been his little princess. He makes her feel safe and secure in a way no one and nothing else ever has. He’s Hiram Lodge. He’s one of the most powerful men in New York. Whenever she was upset when she was little, and he was home, it was him who’d pick her up and wipe away her tears, who’d let her sit in his office chair or hide under his desk, who’d take her out for ice cream or hot chocolate. 

She knows he deserves to be in prison, but it’s not like- it’s not like he killed anyone, is it? His crimes hurt people, but only financially. He was just bending the rules, gaming the system. She might be angry at him for ending up in that position in the first place, but she’s not ashamed to call him her father. And if he ever lied to her… well, his lies were easier to swallow than Mom’s, that’s all.

But Mom and Dad and their future aside, she still needs to have the last laugh, so to speak. She’s Veronica Lodge. In this specific case, that means going out clubbing on a school night, obviously. A Monday night, to make matters even worse. The prospect of taking a train down to the city, right under Mom’s nose, is the only thing that gets her through the day, which is even more grim than usual, mostly because half the town is out looking for Polly Cooper, and the other half is loudly theorizing about whether or not Polly had help murdering Jason.

Truth be told, Polly is sort of the last thing on Veronica’s mind right now, but she can’t let on to that to Betty.

“I can’t,” Betty gapes at her. “Are you kidding? I’m already on lockdown, V- there’s no way I can go into the city with you. Mom has me manning a tip hotline at the Register’s office tonight anyways.”

Veronica sighs and resists the urge to stomp a heeled foot like an overgrown little girl. She’s trying to drink away her familial problems and rebel here, and of course Betty’s being sensible. 

“Besides,” Betty adds, as she packs away her lunch, “I don’t even have a fake ID- and no, before you ask, the only person who makes them here is Reggie, and we’re not exactly on great terms.” 

As she says this, her gaze darts around, searching for someone, probably Jughead. Veronica has a feeling something happened with them on Saturday night, if it hadn’t already happened before that. But now probably isn’t a great time to pry, when Betty’s worried sick about her sister. 

“I’ll go with you,” Kevin says abruptly, and Veronica looks over at him quickly. 

Archie isn’t sitting with them at lunch either- he and Jughead probably mutually agreed to skip off campus and get burgers or something, since apparently they’re rekindling their bromance. Good. Archie’s been pretty down lately, even if everyone was all compliments about his talent show performance. Maybe Jughead will snap him out of it. Or at least get him nice and mellow.

“Really?” she asks- Kevin certainly has a rebellious streak, but she never pegged him as much of a city boy.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “my house is pretty stressful lately, what with Dad and the case and everything. He won’t even notice I’m gone. I can drive us to the train station.”

“You have your license already?”

He rolls his eyes, finishing off his soda and chucking it into a nearby trash can. “Sheriff’s son, nepotism… ring a bell?”

So that’s the story of how she finds herself in Manhattan with Kevin Keller, stalking down the sidewalk and relishing the buzz of the city all around her; the traffic, the towering buildings, the evening air… She feels more alive than she has in months, with the anonymity of it all, the way no one looks twice at her when she crosses the street.

Kevin keeps up with her quick pace; she’s impressed that he didn’t overdress, at any rate, opting for what are probably his nicest jeans and a dark button down. It’s kind of weird seeing him not in a sweater and oxfords. Veronica is wearing one of her favorite little black dresses and a pair of heels she hasn’t broken out in months, despite the autumn chill outside. The club will be sweltering.

They join the line congregating outside, mostly comprised of twenty somethings in varying dark shades, with a few younger faces waiting nervously, fingering their purses. Veronica debates trying to cut the line, which is what she would have done without hesitation a year ago, but she can’t just rely on name alone anymore, and besides, according to her ID, she’s Sofia Rivero, nineteen. She’s not worried about drinks. She’s never had any difficult sweet-talking bartenders.

“Are you sure they’re not just gonna throw us out?” Kevin asks skeptically, hands in his overcoat pockets. 

“Please, I used to go here all the time-,” Veronica stops talking suddenly when she recognizes a familiar face, and then blurts out, “Nick?”

It is him- Nick St. Clair in the flesh, looking virtually unchanged from when Veronica saw him last, which was the summer before he started his first semester at Columbia. He must be a sophomore now; he’s nineteen, four years older than Veronica. The St. Clairs are old family friends, who have naturally kept their distance since the trial, although Nick did text during it, to ask how she was doing. Veronica hasn’t forgotten that. He used to tease her a lot when they were little, and she had the most embarrassing crush on him in middle school, but he’s always been pleasant, witty, flippant Nick, who- unsurprisingly- has a giggly, wide-eyed girl on his arm.

“Ronnie?” he frowns for a moment in shock, as if trying to put two and two together, and then grins broadly. “What the hell? You’re back? You should have hit me up!” He approaches swiftly, his date, who’s the bubbly sort of wine cooler tipsy that Veronica associates with pre-gaming before any good party, wobbling after him in her high heels.

“Only for the night,” she says, thrilled that he’s not ignoring her, or even being politely distant. Nick is handsome, truthfully, tall and dark-haired and lithe, although she’s always preferred guys a bit broader. “No posting about this- I’m incognito. Oh, and this is Kevin, one of my classmates.”

She notices the way Nick subtly looks Kevin up and down, smile unchanging but tensing slightly in an undoubtedly alpha male tendency- Nick always was cocky- until Kevin says drolly, “Her gay best friend for the night.”

“Roger that,” Nick says jovially, and drapes a long arm around his date’s slender shoulders- she’s a petite Asian girl with hair dyed an appealing shade of burgundy, spilling down in loose waves. “This is Jane- she just started at NYU.”

“Nick promised to show me the best spots in the city,” Jane says happily with a little wave to both Veronica and Kevin. “He’s been an amazing tour guide.”

“I try,” Nick shrugs in faux-modesty, and then nods to the club entrance. “Shall we?”

They follow him and Jane inside, past the bouncer who nods politely to ‘Mr. St. Clair’, ignoring the groans and glares from the rest of the line. “So what’s Richie Rich’s deal?” Kevin mutters to her as they enter the club, blinking hard to adjust to the bright, pulsating lights and the thrum of the pounding music. 

“We practically grew up together,” Veronica shrugs, still smug at their luck in running into him. “His family’s insanely wealthy, of course. He went to Phillips Exeter, and he’s majoring in business at Columbia.”

Nick must have overheard at least part of that, because he looks back with a smirk as they navigate their way over to a free table. “Technically I’m taking a semester off, but that’s the plan, yes.”

“What for?” Veronica asks curiously.

He shrugs. “Thought I’d live it up a little before I completely resign myself to following in dear old Dad’s footsteps as a corporate drone, you know?” 

She doesn’t know, but Nick orders a round of drinks immediately, and then she’s up and pulling Kevin out onto the dance floor, already feeling that familiar warm, heady sensation, and Nick and Jane are quick to follow. The club’s nowhere near as crowded as it would be on the weekend, but there’s still a decent flow of people coming in and out, and the DJ is good. 

Veronica quickly loses track of time- she spends more time drinking than dancing, but Kevin, although he’s a great dancer, proves to be a bit of a lightweight- he’s good and wasted after two hours, although he’s a fun, rude drunk, cracking comments about fellow patrons and twirling Veronica on the dance floor, the lights and people blurring into a motley around her.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed this- the freedom that comes from being able to go out like this, to do just what she wants, when she wants to, answering to nothing and no one. She doesn’t have to worry about what people think, about what anyone thinks. Riverdale feels like a foreign, insignificant country at the moment. She’s Veronica Lodge, and this is where she belongs. They never should have left the city.

But of course the buzz fades eventually and there’s a lull in the music, and she escorts a slightly hysterically snickering Kevin back to the table, wincing at the pain in her feet. Nick is sitting with Jane, who, if she was a little tipsy to start, is completely trashed now- she’s practically lolling back against the leather seat, her side bangs falling into her eyes as she clumsily tries to brush them away. 

Veronica checks her phone, frowning at the sight of a new voicemail, and checks the time. It’s almost midnight, to her surprise. She glances at Kevin, who is barely staying upright himself, and sighs, giving Nick a rueful look. “I think we broke them.”

“You think?” he snorts, brushing Jane’s hair out of her face. Truth be told, she looks sort of queasy, her face pale. 

“Are you okay?” Veronica asks her, but she only slurs something in response, and starts to rise out of her seat, before swaying a little and sitting back down.

“I think she went a little too hard with those shots,” Nick grimaces. “I’ll get her back to her dorm.” He reaches out, and his fingers brush against Veronica’s hand. She starts- it’s probably just the booze, but he’s looking at her… well, not the way you look at an annoying fifteen year old who used to follow you around in the Hamptons.

In spite of herself, she flushes a little.

“You should come back more often,” Nick says quietly. “I’ve missed seeing you around town, Ronnie. I mean,” he nods at her outfit, “come on, you’re all grown up now. You must be the talk of the town in…”

“Riverdale,” Veronica supplies the name, and smiles somewhat awkwardly, which she hates. It’s just Nick. He’s just being nice. Teasing her, even. Just like old times. “I… I want to. I miss it here too.”

“Well,” he says, standing up almost languidly, and pulling Jane up with him, supporting her with one arm locked around her waist. “Don’t be a stranger. Let me know if you’re ever around… we can catch up properly. I’ll take you out somewhere nice. My treat, I promise.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay with her?” Veronica nods at Jane, who looks like she’s struggling not to vomit. “She seems pretty out of it.”

“Freshman girls,” he rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Always think they can handle the stronger stuff. Nah, she’ll be fine, Ronnie. Just needs to sleep it off. I’ll text her roommates.” He holds up his phone with his free hand. “Tell them to break out the coffee and cold showers.”

The music is starting to give Veronica a headache, and she glances back down at her phone and the stupid voicemail. Mom usually doesn’t bother leaving them, so she probably should listen to it. “Okay. I’ll see you around, Nick. Feel better, Jane.” She pulls Kevin by the hand out of the club, where he sits down on a nearby stoop and she listens to Mom’s voicemail, pacing back and forth, trying to hear over the discordant sounds of traffic.

Kevin is staring at her when she lowers the phone.

“What?” he mutters drunkenly. “You look like you,” he grins for emphasis, “seen a ghost. Did you? You know, I’ve been thinking… we could be… the Scooby Gang? Right? Because like… you’re Daphne… I’m Fred… because that fucker… totally gay… and Betty’s Velma…. only blonde… and Jughead’s Shaggy. And Archie,” he giggles, “Archie’s the fucking dog! Scooby doo! Get it, Ver…ronica?”

Veronica stows her phone away in her clutch, and drags him back onto his feet, breathing hard through her nose. “We have to get a train back, stat.”

“Why?” Kevin whines.

“Because my mom says she found Polly Cooper dumpster diving behind Pop’s.”


	31. Chapter 31

Cheryl may have had her car privileges revoked, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to ride the bus like a mouth-breathing, acne-ridden, brace-faced freshman. A few vaguely sexual texts later, and she’s riding in (comparative) style in the passenger seat of Reggie Mantle’s gleaming silver Ford Mustang, listening to a barrage of terrible R&B.

Her reign over Riverdale High may have been in decline as of late, but she’s still got enough of a menacing reputation that Reggie keeps the innuendos and leering to a minimum. He’s probably concerned she’ll grab the wheel and send them both into a telephone pole if he tries anything, but nonetheless, she appreciates the relative quiet.

After all, she’s had a lot to think about since the Coopers dropped the pregnancy bombshell. Cheryl was in complete disbelief at first- Jason is not the type to do anything by accident, nevermind inadvertently impregnate a snivelling drip like Polly Cooper, but the idea of him and Polly intentionally trying to conceive is vomit-inducing, to say the least. How could Jason even entertain the possibility of intermingling their Blossom blood with… that? 

Cheryl doesn’t really think Polly’s the Antichrist, despite what her Twitter feed may indicate, but that doesn’t mean she’s completely innocent, either. If anyone has a motive to kill, ‘jilted pregnant ex-fling’ tops the list. If anything, this is just adding fuel to the fire that is Polly’s rapidly crumbling claims of innocence. Even if she didn’t personally fire the gun, that doesn’t mean she didn’t get someone else to do it for her.

But if she is pregnant… Cheryl has no experience with children, nevermind infants. Despite her large extended family, the only other child she grew up around, outside of her lackluster public schooling, was Jason. She doesn’t know the first thing about pregnancies or babies, besides Mother’s long list of complaints about all her suffering during her pregnancy with Cheryl and Jason, at least before her C-section.

But if Polly is pregnant, than this baby is a Blossom, regardless of its mother. And this baby is Cheryl’s nephew or niece, and the last surviving piece of Jason. She wants Polly to rot, but the baby… Cheryl doesn’t ‘want’ the baby, per se, but she does feel a gnawing, hunger like desire to see it grow up. See how much of Jason is really left, after everything. See if it turns out better than her. And it’s certainly not going to escape her and Jason’s fate if it’s being raised on the streets or in some city slum. 

Which means, loathe as she is to set down her sword, a truce with, of all people, Betty Cooper, is indeed in order. Betty might be painfully stunted in most areas, but if she has one redeeming quality, its her unwavering familial loyalty. Cheryl has her sources, but she’s not going to see hide or blonde hair of Polly Cooper without Betty’s say-so. Sure, Polly is officially ‘missing’, but she can’t have gone that far. 

And if she’s still in town, then there’s a good chance that Betty knows exactly where she is.

Reggie snaps her out of her brooding by clearing his throat crudely as he illegally parks in the senior lot. “So… my place after school or yours?”

Cheryl glances at him disdainfully as she opens the car door and sets one heel down on the pavement. “Let’s not and say we didn’t.”

He sputters in disbelief as she steps out of the car. “You know how much gas money I just wasted on you?!”

She responds by fishing a twenty out of her purse and flinging it at him. “My apologies. Go buy yourself a second rate blowjob in some Southside hovel.”

“Bitch!” But he dives for the twenty anyway.

Cheryl tosses her long red hair over her shoulder, and stalks off toward the school.

She doesn’t manage to track down Betty until lunch. It’s still warm enough to eat outside, and Betty’s in her usual spot, looking wan and tired, deep in conversation with, surprise surprise, Veronica, Jughead, Archie, and Kevin. Don’t they ever get tired of hearing the same whingeing complaints from one another day after day? Cheryl doesn’t understand the intricacies of adolescent social circles, and doesn’t want to. 

She doesn’t need friends. She doesn’t need people leeching off her money and her looks and her ‘sharp tongue’ as one teacher delicately put it to Mother during a conference. People like Betty- all they do is give and give and give, and they get nothing in return. It’s pathetic. It’s like watching a nature documentary as a gazelle is eaten alive by hyenas. Maybe Betty thinks she’s being this great person who will be up for sainthood any day now, but in reality?

In reality she’s just happiest when she’s being used.

They’re so engrossed in their conversation that they don’t immediately notice her approach, and Cheryl catches a snippet of it:

“She can’t just crash on Veronica’s mom’s couch forever,” Archie is arguing, idiotically handsome face creased in concern. “She needs to-,”

He’s cut off by Jughead elbowing him, having finally realized Cheryl is within earshot, and the table goes suspiciously, sullenly quiet. Kevin appears to be muttering “Jesus Christ, not again” under his breath as he massages his forehead; Cheryl recognizes the signs of a hangover when she sees them. 

Veronica sighs and exhales loudly, picking at her brussel sprouts. Jughead glowers, although he’s looks even more ragged than usual, and Betty flushes bright red, digging her nails into her palms. Archie just bites down on his lower lip like a toddler.

“Well, good afternoon to you too,” Cheryl can’t help it; she’s never going to get an award for ‘diffusing tension in group settings’, after all.

“Is there something you wanted, Cheryl?” Veronica finally grinds out.

“Yes, actually.” Cheryl huffs. “A few minutes alone with Betty. I need to discuss… family matters with her.”

At this, Kevin scoffs, Archie’s eyes widen as he sips his Gatorade, and Jughead physically leans across the table slightly, as if to shield Betty from Cheryl’s view. As if she’s some wicked witch whose about to curse the innocent young princess.

“Relax, Ponyboy,” Cheryl rolls her eyes. “No need to broadcast the fact that you and Sandra Dee are in the throes of some torrid love affair.”

She might not have any direct evidence of that, but it stands to reason that if two repressed little virgins partner up to solve a crime, eventually one or the other will snap and let the ravishing commence. Knowing them, it probably happened in a cemetery or in the back of some junk car, while Jughead had an existential crisis and Betty cried about giving up her maidenly flower just like her sissy.

“Wait, what?” Archie and Kevin demand at the same time while Jughead stiffens and Betty gapes in shock, and Veronica pushes her tray back in annoyance.

“Cheryl, do you really want to start throwing stones right now? Because if we’re talking schoolyard gossip, I’m willing to bet I have more Twitter followers.”

Finally, Betty seems to regain the power of speech, and shakes her head, standing up from the table. “It’s okay, Veronica.” She swallows, and looks directly at Cheryl for the first time, green eyes harder than Cheryl remembers, like marbles instead of watery dew drops. “You want to talk, Cheryl? Let’s talk.”

“Betty,” Jughead mutters, but she’s already stepped away from the table.

“I’ll be right back, guys.”

“If you need help, just scream,” Kevin calls after them, as Cheryl leads her quarry a ways away to the shade of a nearby tree.

She feels more uneasy than triumphant. Betty isn’t quailing in place like a frightened rabbit; instead she seems to be steeling herself, crossing her arms over her chest and straightening her shoulders almost defiantly. “What is it this time, Cheryl?”

Cheryl debates trying to reel Betty in with a few faux apologies, but then outright dismisses the notion. They’re way past that level of deception, and if she wants to win Betty over she’s going to have to- gag- honest. Or at least something approaching it. Otherwise she can kiss goodbye any chance of seeing Jason’s son or daughter, ever. 

“We’re on the same side now,” she says flatly instead, and presses on, noting Betty’s look of disbelief. “I mean it. Your sister is having my brother’s baby.”

“So what?” Betty snorts. “Cheryl, less than 48 hours ago you were on a Twitter rampage about how Polly deserved the electric chair for what she ‘did’ to Jason!”

“The whole point of social media is to hyperbolize, Betty,” Cheryl rolls her eyes, and does her best not to get dragged into another fight over semantics with a Cooper. “But that was then. And this is now. Unless you’re suggesting that your parents are lying about the pregnancy?”

Betty pales slightly, and that’s all the confirmation Cheryl needs. She does know where Polly is, because she’s seen her herself. “The only person who’s been lying lately has been you, Cheryl.”

“Get over yourself,” Cheryl exhales sharply through her nose. “The whole town is waist-deep in lies, in case you haven’t noticed. Why do you think the investigation is stalling? Oh, and don’t think I don’t know that you and Jughead broke into my brother’s room during his wake. Very respectful. I’m sure he was smiling down from heaven while you rifled through his record collection,” she sneers, allowing some genuine outrage to creep in.

This does catch Betty off guard- she freezes momentarily. “I- Cheryl, we weren’t trying to-,”

“The greater good, yes, I know,” Cheryl waves a hand dismissively. “I’m over it. The point is, I want to help Polly.”

“You want to help Polly,” Betty echoes almost mockingly. Good. Maybe she’s learning a thing or two.

“Look,” Cheryl puts her hands on her hips. “Obviously, I hate your sister. Would I give a damn if she was sleeping in some truck stop if she wasn’t carrying my brother’s spawn? Of course not. But the fact remains that she is- until proven otherwise- and in that case, I have a vested interest in said spawn. Capiche?”

Betty just stares at her. “Why would you care about what happens to the baby?”

Cheryl recoils slightly, although she does her best to disguise it, but Betty sees, and she feels a wave of bile creep up in her throat. She doesn’t need or want Betty Cooper’s pity. 

“Contrary to popular belief, Betty, I wasn’t born a loveless demon. I loved- I love Jason. And I- I’m going to love anything- anyone- he left behind. Even if your sister is the mother. And we both know that as soon as your parents have her back in their tender, loving grasp, Jason’s child is going to end up in some convent orphanage while she’s shipped off to reform school or the loony bin.”

Betty says nothing at first, but she glances down at the ground, and Cheryl can see her words sinking in. After all, Cheryl’s not the only one with a hyper-dysfunctional home life. The Coopers are just the poor, cheap, knockoff Blossom brand. With, of course, worse looks and horrible taste in clothes. Alice Cooper acts like baby blue and eggshell white are the only colors that can be seen by the human eye.

“My parents might be…,” Cheryl inclines her head slightly, “hostile to outsiders, but they’ll do anything for their grandchild. And that includes,” she rubs her fingers together, “monetary support. Which, unless Polly has some hidden talents I’m unaware of, might prove very useful in the coming months.”

“Polly isn’t going to just hand her baby over to your parents and call it a day, Cheryl,” Betty snaps. “Not after everything they did to keep her and Jason apart.”

“I’m not suggesting that, you blonde bimbo,” Cheryl mutters under her breath in exasperation, before speaking up. “What I’m saying is, use me to use my parents for the ‘greater good’ of Polly and the baby, okay? She’ll be eighteen when Jason’s child’s born, and no one’s going to be able to make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. Until then… cozying up round the Blossom family fire for the coming winter can’t be the worst thing in the world, right?” She pauses a moment. “It’s certainly better than, I don’t know, dumpster diving.”

Betty blanches, and Cheryl knows she’s won. This round, anyways.


	32. Chapter 32

Archie has been sort of aimless since the talent show. Of course he still has football practice and homework and working on his guitar playing and lyrics to occupy his time, so it’s not like he’s sitting around the house moping while Betty and Jughead play detective and Veronica feuds with her mom and Kevin… mocks everyone at lunch. He probably sounds really bitter, and he hates that. He only has himself to blame for feeling this way, and the most irritating part of it all is not being able to pin down how he feels in the first place.

He’s embarrassed and angry and ashamed, obviously, after the whole Grundy/Jennifer thing. And he’s resentful that Dad’s dating again and seems almost… happy… even if he’s sworn up and down that he’s okay with it. And he’s disappointed that Mom didn’t come up to visit like she said, but in her defense he did a really good job of faking oblivious happiness on the phone. And part of him feels left out too, because Betty and Jughead were always his best friends… separately.

And now they’ve somehow linked up and cut him out of the chain entirely. He doesn’t care if they’re dating or just making out or whatever Veronica suspects. He really doesn’t. It’s weird to wrap his head around, but he fucked up any chance he ever had of, well, anything at all with Betty ages ago. Or at least it seems like ages ago, even if it was really less than a month. If they make each other happy, great. Whatever. But- he just feels like he got so wrapped up in… other stuff that now he’s shown up to the proverbial party long after everyone else has gone home.

Things have slightly calmed down (if that’s even possible) since the revelation that Jason Blossom knocked up Polly Cooper. Of course, now everyone is looking for Polly instead of searching for Jason’s killer, but at least Polly’s not out wandering the streets (or the woods) by herself, four months pregnant. Archie was never really friends with Polly, despite practically growing up alongside Betty, but she was always nice, if a little… sensitive.

So while Betty and Veronica and… Cheryl, shockingly enough, are busy plotting something to do with Polly and Cheryl’s parents and potentially involving party balloons, Archie takes note of the fact that Jughead has decided to skip. Which is weird, since he hasn’t skipped for weeks now. Archie’s not sure if it’s Betty’s influence or that things have gotten worse at home or what. But tracking down Jughead? That’s something he can do. Something he’s good at. How many times has he brought Jug homework? Granted, somewhat sporadically, but still.

“Maybe he’s just out sick,” Betty says as school lets out for the day, but Jughead seemed fine (if as exhausted as usual) yesterday, and Archie’s not buying it. Jughead doesn’t get sick. He’s too much of a hipster to be brought down by the common cold. Betty doesn’t look too convinced herself, but she clearly has bigger fish to fry (like a runaway pregnant sister) at the moment, and Archie can’t blame her.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll find him. He probably just relapsed into League of Legends again or something.”

Feeling somewhat purposeful for the first time in two weeks, Archie bikes over to Pop’s. To his surprise, Jughead’s favorite booth is empty, and Pop says he hasn’t been in all day. Next he tries the drive-in, even though it’s technically shut down. He peers through the locked gate, but there’s no sign of Jughead, just some trash getting blown around the gravel lot. Feeling increasingly desperate, he swings by the library, although Jughead spends a lot less time there now then he did back in elementary and middle school, where he’d get thrown out at closing every day. 

No such luck.

He finds Jughead down by the river, as the sun starts to creep lower in the sky overhead, and the wind picks up a bit, rushing along the muddy bank. Jughead is sitting on the edge of the bridge, feet dangling, smoking a joint. Archie hasn’t seen him like this in a while. He’s hunched over, beanie askew, shoulders stiff. The wind is occasionally buffeting his face, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hey,” Archie says, hands in his jacket pockets.

“Hey.” Jughead doesn’t turn around. His voice is flat and low.

“Did something happen?” Archie asks after a moment. 

Jughead gives a limp shrug.

Archie clambers up beside him, ignoring the fact that if he happens to slip, while he’s probably not high enough to die on impact, he has a good chance of breaking something or multiple things from the drop. He has a vague memory of chucking rocks and shit off this bridge with Jughead in middle school, then scurrying away when Sheriff Keller’s cruiser rolled by, laughing breathlessly. That was when Jughead still lived in a house, though. When his mom and sister were still around.

Archie doesn’t really remember Mrs. Jones well, except that she seemed way too young to have two kids, more like a big sister than a mom, but he remembers Jellybean a bit. She was always really bouncy and smiley. He and Jughead would take turns giving her piggyback rides. Sometimes they’d let her play Mario Kart with them. She was a really sweet little kid. Peppy. Not like the rest of her family. He doesn’t remember the Jones household as ever being particularly… cheerful.

“Did you get into a fight with your dad?” he asks after a moment.

“Bingo,” Jughead intones dully. 

Archie glances sideways at him; he’s sitting like it would hurt to straighten up, a taut ball of nerves and pale skin. He knows FP gets… nasty when he’s drunk. He knows, logically, that something must have happened back in June for Jughead to suddenly swear off sleeping at home most nights. He just… he didn’t ask because he didn’t want to make Jug uncomfortable and then it was too late to ask without it being weird and he just felt guilty.

And then he was busy fucking his music teacher and pretending his life was going great.

But he’s… he’s sick of not talking about stuff. Of holding it all in like when you really have to puke and you can feel it hot and thick in the back of your throat. He doesn’t want to be like that forever. Not like Dad, who’d rather walk over hot coals than talk about Mom or a divorce or anything at all besides construction and football. Archie squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, ignores the queasy feeling in his stomach.

“Did your dad… hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” Jughead mutters.

“No, you’re not,” Archie says more firmly than he feels. “Okay? You’re not. Neither of us are fine, but- but right now you’re… even less fine than normal, so… you need to tell me. Alright? You’re my best friend. I- I know I’ve been a shitty friend lately-,”

“You haven’t,” Jughead argues exasperatedly, but Archie cuts him off.

“Yeah, Jug, I have. But I have your back, no matter what. I mean it. So… I think we should talk about it.” He slams the heels of his sneakers against the stone bridge methodically, as if testing to see if it will hold the weight of them and their respective issues. 

“I made the stupid fucking mistake of hanging around at home for too long, he came in trashed and pissed as hell, and…” Jughead trails off. “I mouthed off, I guess. I was just- mad. I don’t know. He hadn’t been like that in a while, I thought maybe…” his voice drops to a hoarse, almost shameful rasp. “I thought maybe after me being gone most of the time all summer, he’d… started to get a bit better.”

Archie exhales slowly. “Did he hit you?”

“Too drunk to throw a punch,” Jughead shakes his head. “He- I fell into the kitchen counter. A couple times. I’m fine, my back just… hurts.”

Cautiously, Archie puts a hand on his wiry shoulder. “You can’t go home if he’s gonna be like that.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Jughead snorts. 

“No, I mean- it’s gonna be really cold at night soon. And it’s getting dark early again,” Archie says quietly. “You can’t be… wandering around.”

“I’ll manage,” Jughead mumbles.

“You should sleep at my house tonight. My dad won’t mind.”

“I’m not gonna-,”

“Wasn’t asking, Jug,” Archie shakes his head. “I’m serious. I get you don’t want… to tell people and stuff, but you gotta have somewhere to stay. There’s a fucking murderer running around.”

Jughead takes one last drag from his joint and then lets it fall into the dark river rushing below them. He coughs, and winces. “When you’d become the reasonable one?”

Archie shrugs. “Had to happen at some point.”

Jughead nods grimly, and then says. “Look. You’re not the only one who’s… fucked up. I could have- the way I… I was an asshole. About the… the Grundy thing. And I’ve been a shitty friend lately too. I didn’t- Betty-,” he sighs, frustrated. “Betty and I aren’t dating. So we’re not… I’m not blowing you off to-,”

“Get laid,” Archie finishes for him with a huff of amusement. “Yeah. But you do like her.” It’s not a question.

Jughead peers at him warily. “I… yeah. Dunno how that happened, it just… people underestimate her. I guess. But she’s…”

“Smart,” says Archie, “and stubborn, and too fucking empathetic for her own good. Huh. Kinda sounds like someone I know.” He nudges Jughead with an elbow, gently.

“We’re not together,” Jughead says quickly. “I mean, we haven’t- haven’t really had time to talk about it, anyways. And… her parents would lose their shit, and…,” he trails off, and then sighs. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen. If anything will happen. I just… she’s good. For me. I think. I just wish-,” he cuts himself off and shakes his head minutely.

“You’re good for her too,” Archie says mildly. “You really think she’d be sneaking out of the house left and right and pepper-spraying Reggie’s gang of jackasses without you? Betty’s always been tough. But you… let her see for herself what she’s capable of. And… that’s a good thing. I think she really needed that.”

“Okay, Dr. Phil,” Jughead mutters under his breath, and Archie barks a laugh.

“Fuck you, dude. I’m trying to give a pep talk here.”

Jughead exhales. “Yeah? We’re doing pep talks? Okay. My turn. Grundy- Jennifer- whatever her name is, she fucked you up. You know it. I know it.”

Archie tenses horribly, feels like he just got pushed off the bridge and is plummeting towards the cold water below-

“But you’re stronger than her,” Jughead continues in a low, utterly convinced tone. “Okay? You’re Archie fucking Andrews. Big man on campus, Mr. Popularity- and a fucking good musician. You don’t need her. You never did. She was just some pathetic… scumbag who got off on making you feel like you did. You’re worth ten of her. She manipulated you. She lied to you. And she-,” here he hesitates, “you might have wanted it, but it was on her not to start it in the first place. You’re a kid. She’s an adult.”

Archie hears himself make an odd choking noise, and his eyes burn. He wipes at them with the back of his cold hand.

“What I’m trying to say is, it’s fucked up. It is. But you… you just got caught up in something that wasn’t your fault, okay? And I- I should have been there for you more. And you should have told me. But that’s on both of us. You’re gonna get through it. And you’re gonna forget her, and she’s gonna keep living her miserable fucking existence while you score touchdowns and play guitar solos and- I dunno, eat burgers with me and Betty and Veronica at Pop’s.”

Archie is crying, silently, the way tough guys do in movies, but when Jughead locks a skinny arm around him he sobs aloud, and they sit there in the growing dusk and the cold, and he feels some of the weight inside him ease up, flow steadily out of his eyes and nose and drip down into the river.


	33. Chapter 33

Jughead has never had a birthday party, and he’d like to keep it that way. Entirely one person outside of his immediate family knows his date of birth off the top of their head, and that’s Archie, who Jughead swore to secrecy in the sixth grade. His aversion to birthday celebrations is partially like his aversion to getting pictures taken; if there’s anything Jughead loathes, it’s the spotlight. Being the center of attention, under pressure to perform for eager onlookers, it all makes his skin crawl. 

But it’s also partially because with his family, any special occasions were a ticking time bomb. His parents fought often enough on regular days; Dad was twice as likely to be trashed during Christmas or a party. And Mom was never the perky hostess- she always tried her best, but Jughead knew she’d much rather they just order Chinese or something. The last birthday he remembers with any fondness was his twelfth, before Mom and Jellybean left. 

Dad was off doing who the fuck knows what, and Mom let him and Jelly stay home from school. Then she’d put them all on a train to the city with some scraped together tips money, and they went to the Museum of Natural History. Jughead has a picture of him and his sister standing in front of the Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton. 

They’d gotten home late at night, and Dad was passed out in front of the TV. Tip toeing past him and into the kitchen was almost like a game. Jellybean was falling asleep into her ice cream at the kitchen table, and Jughead had sat on the back stoop with Mom while she smoked a cigarette and stroked his hair.

“Did you have a good day, baby?” He remembers the circles under her eyes looked especially dark in the yellow glow of the light by the back door. Mom has the same thin smile as him; perpetually wry and slightly strained.

“Yeah,” he’d said, and leaned against her; he was already as tall as her. “Thanks for not making me eat cake.”

“Thanks for being my boy,” she’d given him a quick squeeze, and then slid something into his lap. “Dad got you something too.”

Jughead had turned the book over in his hands. “Doctor Sleep?” 

“New Stephen King,” Mom had nudged him teasingly with an elbow. “See? He knows what you like. When I met him, he had a copy of The Dark Tower on him. Very romantic.” 

She’d let him stay up until midnight that night, just staring into the dark of the backyard while he read his new book by flashlight, squinting blearily as he tore through the pages. He misses that about Mom. Just being able to sit with her in comfortable silence. Dad is the one who can talk himself into and out of trouble with ease, but Mom was always more reticent, like Jughead.

But today is his sixteenth birthday, and he’s not in their old house with a backyard anymore, but he’s not in the trailer with Dad, either. He’s been sleeping on the pull-out couch in the Andrews’ living room for a few days now, and he can already mentally see his time ticking down. Mr. Andrews is a nice guy and all, but he’s not going to let Jughead crash with them indefinitely. 

He skips school, mostly because it’s a Friday and he’s been skipping on his birthday since middle school, and spends the day roaming the town, and from across the street watches Betty’s parents get the call about Polly from Hermione Lodge in their front office at the Register. He ducks into an alley when he sees them grab their coats and rush out the door. Say what you will about the Coopers, but at least they’re always chasing after their kids, rather than the other way around.

This was planned- Betty and Veronica have cooked up some potentially insane scheme, but step one of it was giving Polly a few days to decide if she’s staying in Riverdale or not before having Hermione’s mom alert the Coopers- and Sheriff Keller- that Polly is safe and sound. The Blossoms will probably know before the day is over as well, and Jughead isn’t so sure that a baby shower is going to be enough to prevent all out war between the two families.

But that’s not really his business. He and Betty are investigating Jason’s murder, and since he’s reasonably sure Polly didn’t murder her boyfriend and the father of her child, what happens to her, callous as it might sound, isn’t his concern. For the time being, she seems like she’s determined to not let her parents walk all over her, and maybe Betty can talk her mom down from killing anyone.

He meanders back to the Andrews house, stomach growling, when he sees a school bus rumble past, and finds Archie wheeling his bike into the garage, talking on the phone to his dad. He waves at Jughead when he sees him, and then hangs up, looking vaguely alarmed. “Someone trashed the construction site at the drive-in. A bunch of equipment’s either broken or missing, and Dad’s crew up and quit.”

“Why?” Jughead shifts from foot to foot, folding his arms across his chest.

Archie shrugs. “Dad thinks Cliff Blossom paid them off because the Lodges bought them out for the property.”

“Jesus,” mutters Jughead, following him inside. As if the town doesn’t have enough turmoil already without yet another familial feud between two separate groups of soulless capitalists.

“And Betty wants to meet up with you,” Archie adds as he rummages through the pantry, chucking a box of poptarts at Jughead, who catches them at the last second. He frowns at the box. They’re confetti cake flavored. “Her parents picked her up during fifth period, to go get Polly, I guess.”

Jughead reluctantly unwraps a poptart as Archie finally happens upon the chips he was searching. “Did she say when?”

There’s a brisk knock on the front door, and Archie grins. “Uh… now.”

Jughead opens the door to find himself face to face with Betty, who is grinning in a way that can only be described as defiant, and who shoves a still warm takeout bag into his hands. “I missed lunch, so I made Dad stop at Pop’s on the way home.” Jughead stares at her for a moment, trying to discern whether she’s just being nice because they’re friends and made out and both want to do it again some time, or because Archie told her it was his birthday.

But Betty says nothing about it, breezing into the Andrews house in a better mood than he’s seen her in a while now, probably because the stress of hiding Polly’s whereabouts from her parents is finally over. Jughead trails after her, finishing his poptart before he dives into the french fries, since he didn’t really eat lunch either. It occurs to him that Betty probably knows this house even better than him; after all, she lives directly across the street.

Even when they lived in a house, they lived on the outskirts of Northside, right by the train tracks. Barely respectable. Barely out of Southside. Barely holding on. Sometimes Jughead thinks about what it’d have been like to grow up on this quiet, idyllic street, where most of the moms don’t even work and all the dads are home by five for dinner. What it’d be like to have some sort of routine, of stability. Even before Mom left, she was always working odd hours or someone would forget to get Jellybean off the bus, or Dad would pass out drunk in the kitchen with the stove on.

“My dad went back to the office,” Betty is saying as she pets an enthusiastically panting Vegas. “And my mom is still at the Pembroke, trying to talk Polly into coming home with her.”

“Can’t she just make her?” Archie frowns, after swallowing his mouthful of chips. “Polly’s still seventeen.”

“She could try,” Betty says, “but Sheriff Keller told Mom it was ‘a family matter’ and he wasn’t going to drag Polly kicking and screaming out of the building.”

“I guess that level of stress probably isn’t good for the baby,” Jughead mutters, only somewhat sarcastically. 

It’s evidence of Betty’s good mood that she only rolls her eyes at him. “I’ve never seen my mom like this- having to walk on ice around Polly. She thinks if she really freaks out on her, Polly might up and run again.” She bites her lip decisively. “And she should be worried. If she hadn’t gone ballistic in the first place, Polly never would have had to run away from the Sisters.”

“At least they’re talking to each other again?” Archie offers, taking another handful of chips, and offering the bag to Betty, who shakes her head. Jughead is tearing into the lukewarm burger she brought him. 

“My dad was so mad he could barely speak,” she shrugs slightly, although her expression sobers. “He just saw that she was okay and walked out after a few minutes. But I think my mom is trying- sort of. She promised Polly she wouldn’t send her back to the convent, at least. That has to count for something.”

Jughead wouldn’t trust a promise from Alice Cooper if she was the last person alive on Earth, but then again, he’s a bit biased, as a Jones. As if on cue, Betty announces, “So we have to go talk to your dad, Jughead.”

He chokes, then coughs, then sputters, not necessarily in that order, until Archie reaches over and pounds him on the back. “Why?”

“Because Polly told the sheriff that Jason went to Southside for the drugs. Specifically the Serpents.” Betty frowns. “He wouldn’t let me take notes during the interview.”

Jughead exhales heavily through his nose, rests his head in his salt-covered hands for a moment, and then looks back up at her and Archie. “I’ve gotta go over to the drive-in to help Dad,” Archie says apologetically, finally putting away the chips.

“No problem,” Betty chirps, “Jughead and I will bike over to the Whyte Wyrm. Dad thinks I’m working on my chem project at home.”

“We’re not going to the fucking Wyrm!” Jughead snaps, breaking his record of not dropping an F-bomb on his birthday, and Betty just shrugs, picking her backpack up from the couch and giving Vegas one final pat. 

“Then I guess I’ll see you later.”

A half hour later, they’re standing outside the Whyte Wyrm. It’s barely four in the afternoon, but the bar is open all day, and Jughead can hear the faint sounds of music and the clink of glasses from inside. The windows are permanently dusty and stained, so it’s impossible to get a good look inside. Jughead has been in here before, but that was years ago, and all he remembers is playing hide and seek under the table with some kids who probably had even shittier dads than him.

Jughead is still annoyed with Betty for having to pay dear old Dad a visit on his birthday in the first place, but Betty (hopefully) doesn’t know it’s his birthday, or that he’s been staying with Archie, and like it or not, she does have a point. As it stands, his dad is their only lead at the moment. He might have been one of the last people to see Jason alive, besides Cheryl, of course. If he knows anything… well, Jughead isn’t hopeful that he’ll crack, but Betty might be able to throw him off his usual game of deny, lie, deny, repeat. 

Betty squares her shoulders, then reaches over and gives his hand a quick squeeze. He squeezes back, glowering all the while, and they march inside, blinking hard to adjust to the dim lighting. The bar is nearly empty, aside from the tattooed, grizzled bartender wiping down the counter-top, and Hot Dog, the giant sheepdog that belongs to- well, Jughead’s not really sure who Hot Dog belongs to, but he’s currently snoring under a table.

“Long time no see, Juggernaut,” crows Sweet Pea, who is slumped in a booth, holding a napkin stuffed with ice against his head. 

“What happened to you?” Jughead says shortly, eying him, Betty peering curiously over his shoulder.

“Ran into a few Ghoulies,” Sweet Pea licks his bloody lower lip, the notices Betty. “Who’s Blondie?”

“My name’s Betty Cooper,” Betty says indignantly, just as Jughead says, “None of your goddamn business, Pea.”

The door in the back leading to the office creaks open, and Dad swaggers out. He’s not drunk, which is saying something. He looks momentarily shocked at the sight of them, and then composes himself, rearranging his expression into a languid smirk. “Sweet Pea, go take a walk with Hot Dog.”

“He just went for a walk with Toni and Fangs,” Sweet Pea mutters.

“Then take a walk without him,” Dad says through gritted teeth, cheerfully, something Jughead will probably never be able to master. “It’ll be good for you, trust me. You could use the fresh air.”

Sweet Pea pushes himself up from the booth and stalks off, somewhat unsteadily. The bartender puts down his rag, and nods to Dad. “I’ll be taking my smoke break, then.”

“Good man,” says Dad jovially, as the door swings shut behind them, the bell tinkling discordantly. He hops up on a stool a little too gracefully for someone swiftly approaching his mid forties. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Mercifully, he doesn’t say anything snide about Jughead not having been home in a few days. Maybe he still feels guilty. Probably not.

“Jason Blossom was running drugs for your gang,” Betty starts off, matter of factly, and Jughead tries to restrain himself from shaking her or something. 

“Hm,” says Dad, propping his hands on his knees like he’s settling in for a ghost story. “Who’d you hear that from- Betty, right?” He smiles, disarmingly, and Betty blanches ever so slightly, before regaining her stiff upper lip.

“Yes. Betty Cooper, reporter for the Blue and Gold.”

“Right,” he nods slowly. “Alice Cooper’s little girl.” His inflection on ‘Alice Cooper’ changes just enough to be noticed by both Jughead and Betty, whose gaze flickers uneasily, before she soldiers on.

“I heard it from my sister, Polly, Jason’s girlfriend. She claims Jason needed money in order to finance their escape,” Betty recites as if presenting before a class. Jughead studies the floor, wishing he were anywhere else, but he’s not about to walk out on her.

“So the story is that a poor little rich kid wanders in here some dark, rainy night,” Dad drawls, “and I take pity on the poor soul, hook him up with some… harder products… and send him on his merry way… where?”

Betty clenches her jaw. “Upstate. Polly said they were supposed to make a drop-off for $1000. Enough to get them out of here, permanently.”

“Sounds like a lot of money to entrust to two desperate kids with a baby on the way,” Dad shrugs. 

“Maybe you were desperate too,” Betty counters.

Dad grins, and Jughead resists the urge to physically put himself between them. Dad’s not gonna do anything, not here, not now. 

“I don’t think I’ve got the answers you’re looking for,” he says. “Matter of fact, I don’t think anyone around here does, and I wouldn’t advise knocking on doors, even if you’ve got my boy playing guard dog.”

Jughead stiffens, but says nothing. If he opens his mouth, it will get ugly, fast, and he’s not ready to rip off that particular bandaid in front of Betty. Right now, she likes him. Really likes him. She might not once it starts to really sink in who his dad is, who he is around his dad. The Jones men don’t exactly have the best track record with women in general.

“Fine,” says Betty, “but Sheriff Keller will be here sooner or later, and I guarantee you he’ll be knocking on doors.” She glances at Jughead. “Let’s go.”

They’re nearly to the door when Dad calls after them, half bitter, half sardonic, “Hope you’re having a good birthday, Jug,” and Betty and he both freeze. He starts to turn, but Betty grabs his hand, and he lets her pull him out the door. They stand outside in the gravel parking lot, avoiding eye contact.

“Sorry,” says Betty. “I guess that was pretty pointless.”

“He’s an asshole all the time, so don’t worry about it,” Jughead mumbles. “Whatever.”

She doesn’t say anything about his birthday, just brushes her shoulder against his. “My dad’s probably not home yet. Do you wanna…,” she stutters a little and flushes, “um, we could watch a movie? And I have to make cupcakes, for the baby shower tomorrow.”

“I’m really bad at watching movies,” Jughead jokes flatly, and she leans up and ghosts a kiss along his cheek, and suddenly his birthday isn’t so bad after all.


	34. Chapter 34

Betty is sitting in the front passenger seat on Mom’s car with the container of cupcakes balanced precariously on her lap. She baked angel food cupcakes for Polly, since those were always her favorite, and the icing is yellow because they don’t know what the baby is yet. She wishes the shade of yellow was a little less obnoxious, but oh well. They’ll still taste good. 

Jughead helped her ice them, so some of them look a bit… lopsided, but that’s okay, because they made out for the second time ever in the Cooper family kitchen, and Betty giggled a little too loudly when she backed up into the fridge and knocked down a picture of Polly’s Sweet Sixteen, but it didn’t matter because his mouth tasted like literal sugar.

Betty’s still not sure ‘what’ they are, but she didn’t want to ruin things on his birthday by getting technical. And part of her doesn’t really care, so long as they can keep doing this- kissing, that is, they haven’t even gotten to second base yet, although honestly it’s barely been a week, and they’ve only gone on one actual date, if you count baking cupcakes for her 17-and-pregnant sister while her parents were out. 

Anyways, now really wouldn’t be the time to break the news of her having any interest in any boy, ever, with Mom, who is sitting very still in the driver’s seat, grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled although she parked five minutes ago. “We’re going to be late,” says Betty, who really should just get out of the car, but it feels cruel to leave Mom here, even if she brought all of this upon herself. 

Mom exhales slowly, closing and opening her eyes. “Do you have any idea how excruciating this is for me? My seventeen year old’s baby shower is being hosted by Hermione Lodge, Betty. We used to be in the same homeroom in high school.”

Betty thinks it’s safe to hazard a guess that Mom and Mrs. Lodge probably weren’t the best of friends. “Was she… nice?” she asks, not so much because she cares but because she’d rather Mom rant here in the relative sanctity of the car then in the Pembroke. 

Mom glances at her, expression both incredulous and pitying. “No. She was not. She was a vicious little social-climber who spent most of her time making anyone who got on her bad side’s life a living hell. Her primary extracurricular was throwing herself at Hiram Lodge because he oozed money and drove a Chevy Monte Carlo.”

You probably had a lot in common, then, Betty wants to say, just to get in a final jab at Mom for playing the victim these past few days, but the truth is she draws a blank whenever she tries to imagine her parents as teenagers. They just seem so… permanent the way they are now. Mom with her carefully coiffed hair and her cardigans and Dad with his growing belly and his khakis. 

“And to make matters worse,” Mom continues shrilly, “the other guest of honor will be Penelope Blossom!”

“Did you go to high school with her, too?” Betty mutters, glancing out the window. It’s drizzling outside, which doesn’t really bring to mind new beginnings and fresh starts. At least the baby shower will be inside, although she’s really not sure at this point if having a Cooper, a Lodge, and a Blossom all in the same enclosed space is the best idea. Jughead would probably say ‘I told you so’ right about now.

“Thank God, no,” Mom says. “No, her parents shipped her here as soon as they got wind that Clifford Blossom had graduated and was on the market for a look-alike wife. They’re distant cousins, you know,” her tone darkens, “the Blossoms always liked to keep it all in the family.”

“Mom,” Betty sighs. “You have to at least pretend to be civil if this is going to work. You want Polly to start talking to you and Dad again, right?”

“I want my daughter at home,” Mom snaps, “where she belongs, not rooming with Hermione Lodge and her daughter! God knows what goes on in that apartment, the lifestyle those two lead-,”

“Mrs. Lodge is working as a bookkeeper for Archie’s dad,” Betty rolls her eyes, “she’s not throwing wild parties every night, Mom. And Veronica is perfectly normal-,”

“You’re lucky that you being friends with that girl is the least of my worries at the moment,” Mom cuts her off. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you since this summer, Betty, really. You’re so… sullen and secretive.”

“Well, it’s not like you and Dad lied to me for months or anything!”

To her credit (whatever that may be), Mom does have the decency to flinch a little at that, and doesn’t immediately rip Betty’s head off, the way she would have a month ago. Slow progress is still progress. “Look,” Betty says, “it doesn’t matter if you hate Veronica’s mom and Cheryl’s mom or whatever. This is about Polly, not them. And if you go in there and just pick a fight, she’s never going to believe that you really care about her and the baby.”

“Of course I care!” Mom looks furious, but seems to restrain herself from completely losing it on Betty, instead taking a few deep breaths. Maybe she’ll finally take up yoga, which Dad has been semi-passive-aggressively suggesting for years now. Or gardening. Or anything that doesn’t involve frantic typing on the computer, livid phone calls, or slamming the oven door so hard the entire house shakes. 

“You have to understand, Betty,” she says after a moment, “that I’ve been through this before.”

Betty frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mom glances away for a few seconds before she says briskly, as if she’s sweeping it aside with a broom, “My mother was sixteen when she had me. She dropped out of school before they could expel her. We lived with her parents until I was four, and then they threw her out. And my childhood wasn’t a very nice time,” she almost sneers it, “after that. I know first hand what it’s like to be the result of a…,” she trails off, and a vaguely nauseous look passes over her face, as if she’s about to be ill. 

“I never wanted that for Polly. Or you. People are more open-minded now, to children from unwed mothers, but- it’s still no way to grow up. Especially not in these circumstances. Polly’s not married, the father of her child is dead, the entire town is intimately familiar with her business, God knows if she’ll even graduate high school at this point, and with the way things are going, she’ll skip off to who knows where on a whim and end up raising it in some shoe box of an apartment, hating her life for years to come!”

Betty knew Mom never knew her dad, and that her mom had her young, but… For the first time in a while, she feels a pang of sympathy for her mother. “Mom,” she says softly, “you can’t think like that. We’re going to find whoever killed Jason, Polly’s going to graduate- maybe not this year, but eventually- and… and we’re going to support her, right? That’s what this whole thing is about. Letting her know that her family cares.”

For what seems like ages Mom doesn’t say anything, her blue-eyed gaze unreadable, and then she gives a minute nod, and gets out of the car, putting up her umbrella and coming around the other side for Betty, who scrambles out and under it, trying to hold the cupcakes steady and not get mud all over her flats. Veronica’s apartment is on the top floor of the Pembroke, and after a silent elevator ride, Betty steps forward to knock on the door, mentally urging Mom to at least attempt to smile.

The door flies open, and to Betty’s surprise it’s not Veronica or even Cheryl who answers it but Polly herself, who looks much more noticeably pregnant in the expensive-looking magenta dress she’s wearing, her hair neatly combed and her smile wide, although it wavers at the sight of Mom. 

“You’re here!” she exclaims to Betty instead, pulling her into a tight embrace and as they enter the apartment, Betty notices Mrs. Lodge pouring champagne in the small kitchenette, Cheryl sitting on the sofa with her grim mother, and Veronica adjusting a few pink and blue balloons.

“Polly,” Mom says, her tone noticeably more subdued and far less strident than usual, more pleading than commanding, but Polly acts as if she hasn’t even noticed her, instead grabbing Betty’s hands in her own as she sets down the cupcakes. 

“You’ll never believe this,” Polly bubbles, and her obvious delight is both relieving and alarming at the same time, since the last time Betty saw her she was far from, well, joyous. “I can’t- it’s insane, Betty, but it’s like- it’s-,”

“What is it?” Betty demands, forcing a grin on her own face. “Come on, tell me!”

“Hermione took me to my appointment with Dr. Patel this morning,” Polly beams, “and he says I’m having twins! I wanted to call you, but I knew it’d be better in person- Mom?” she gasps in alarm, and Betty whips around just in time to see her mother go sheet white, as if she’s about to faint. 

Mrs. Lodge comes quickly out from behind the island, heels clicking on the polished hardwood floor. She takes Mom gently by the elbow. “Alice, why don’t you sit down- have a drink?” she suggests.

It’s a credit to Mom’s shock that she doesn’t elbow Hermione Lodge in the face, Betty thinks, although the news is breaking like a wave over her as well. Twins? How… How is Polly going to look after two babies? One seemed… well, to Betty, one tiny baby seemed managable for a teenage girl, but two? There’s no way Polly’s going to be able to live alone somewhere, taking care of two babies at once. Who’s going to help her with the feedings? The diapers? Getting them out of the house? 

All of a sudden Mom’s paranoia seems a lot more… realistic. 

“Isn’t this amazing?” Polly says brightly, as Mrs. Lodge leads Mom to a seat across from Cheryl and her mother. “It’s like it was meant to be! Now I’ll have two pieces of Jason with me forever,” and the pain tears across her face very quickly, like a flash of lightning, but then she’s smiling again, grabbing Betty’s hand, and all Betty can do is smile and nod, because there’s nothing else to be done. 

By some miracle, everyone manages to behave themselves until it’s time to open the gifts. Mom is virtually speechless, of course, so that probably helps, and Mrs. Blossom doesn’t say much either. Mrs. Lodge and Veronica lead most of the conversation like they rehearsed this (and maybe they did) steering clear of any and all topics, mostly pertaining to Jason, the Register, social media, and really, Riverdale itself. Even Cheryl seems to be making an effort to keep the sarcasm and snide remarks to a minimum, something Betty never thought her capable of.

Polly coos over all her gifts appreciatively, blankets and onesies and bottles and diapers and stuffed animals and little hats and mittens, since the babies are due in early March, and then at last she opens Mom’s gift, which Betty has been holding her breath over, not knowing what she picked out. Polly hesitates, looking into the gift bag, before taking it out. Betty’s confused; the book is clearly old and worn, cover faded and battered. 

“Guess How Much I Love You,” Polly reads the title, and her voice shakes slightly.

Mrs. Blossom gives a barely audible sniff of disbelief.

“I used to read it to you every night when you were little, before Betty was born,” Mom says very quietly. “Do you remember?”

Polly says nothing, but she sets the book down in her lap. “That was a really long time ago, Mom.”

Betty glances at Cheryl, who has an odd expression on her usually composed face, and wonders briefly if Cheryl’s parents ever read to her before bed. Given her mother’s reaction… probably not. 

“I know,” Mom says, “I know it was, Polly, and I know… things haven’t been…,” she flushes, and for a few moments looks suddenly young and unsure of herself to Betty, who catches a glimpse, however short, of a little girl whose mother never said, ‘Guess how much I love you, Alice?’, even if it was just from a silly picture book.

“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I truly am, Polly. I’m sorry I haven’t been… the mother I should have been. With you… and your sister. I know I… pushed you away. It was never my intention, but I did. If I had been more… accepting, with you, then maybe none… maybe things would have been different. But right now, all we can do is move forward. And I want to be here for you, Polly. I do. I know what your father and I did was-,”

“No,” Polly stands up, and the book falls to the floor. Betty shares a panicked glance with Veronica, and Mrs. Lodge reaches for Polly, but she shakes her off. Mrs. Blossom tilts her chin up slightly, and although she’s not smiling, Betty can practically sense the smugness seeping off her. Cheryl is back to being indiscernible. 

“No,” Polly repeats herself. “You don’t get it, Mom. My entire life, all you- you expected perfection, and when you didn’t get it, you made me feel like- like shit! Constantly comparing me and Betty, always breathing down my neck about the stupidest things- who cares what I wanted to wear to school, or if I wanted to do cheer, or- it didn’t matter! But to you it did! And then when I was with Jason, you-,” her voice breaks off into a sob, “the things you said to me- do you think you can just pretend that never happened? I trusted you! No matter how bad you made me feel about myself, I trusted you to- to be there for me, and you never were!” 

“Polly,” Mom rises to her feet as well, not matching her rage but instead trying to placate it, hands outstretched, “Polly, honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t… I’m so sorry, I know it wasn’t fair to you, but I was just so scared-,”

“Scared I turn out like you?” Polly snaps. “Don’t worry- Dad told me all about it when he showed up at the convent a week after you locked me up. You couldn’t even go yourself to try to bully me into getting rid of Jason’s baby- his babies- so instead you sent him to do your dirty work!”

At this, Betty feels as if she’s been punched in the stomach. “What?” she asks hoarsely, staring at Polly in horror. “What do you mean, Dad-,”

“They wanted me to get an abortion,” Polly hisses, “Dad even said he’d pay for it all himself, that I wouldn’t have to worry about any of it, that if I just did the ‘right’ thing we could all go back to normal!” 

Her expression is nearly a snarl as she confronts Mom. “As if I’d ever betray Jason like that, after everything we went through together! He was going to love our baby… our babies,” she breaks off into sputtering sobs again, and Veronica pulls her back down to sit, haltingly stroking her back.

Betty looks to Mom. “Is- is that what happened?” 

“I have to admit,” Mrs. Blossom interjects smoothly, “this is a low blow, even coming from you, Alice. Then again… I suppose that’s just the way you were raised…” 

Mom’s hands are shaking. Betty has never seen her mother crumple like this before, face ashen, hands trembling, eyes red and watery. “Mom,” she says again, desperately. “Did you send Dad-,”

“I didn’t send your father anywhere,” Mom whispers, and then a hand comes up over her mouth, like she’s about to vomit, and she shakes her head and walks swiftly towards the small bathroom by the door. “Excuse me.”

“As I was saying just the other day to Polly, Alice,” Penelope Blossom stands herself, smoothing the front of her skirt, and Mom freezes in her tracks, her back still turned to the rest of them. “She has every reason to believe that the family with her best intentions in mind… is Jason’s. Not her own, if her own parents could treat her so... callously. Which is why she’ll be staying with us for the time being.”

Betty quickly glances back at Polly, who nods tearfully, still wracked with sobs.


	35. Chapter 35

Veronica thinks this might be the first time she’s ever cleaned up after a party. Her parents would host parties all the time, of course, but they had people to set everything up and cater the food and serve the drinks and play the music, and then at the end it would all be quickly and efficiently deconstructed before morning, so that when Veronica came down for breakfast it was as if it had never happened at all.

She’d been really looking forward to her Sweet Sixteen, too, which was supposed to be a combination Sweet Sixteen and quinceanera, and Daddy had promised she could have (literally) whatever she wanted- a car, a boat, a racehorse, an entire new wardrobe. There’s no way in hell that’s happening now- she turns sixteen in December, and so far it looks like her birthday celebrations will include dinner at Pop’s and a sleepover with Betty if she was lucky.

Whatever. It’s just a birthday. Just like how today was just a baby shower, although she’s still trying to figure out whether Cheryl sabotaged them by convincing Polly beforehand that the Blossoms were her only hope. That said, as far as she can tell, Cheryl has always hated Polly, and it seems doubtful that she’d be able to convince her to move in with them without it backfiring. Although, if Alice Cooper was her mom, Veronica might consider moving into the lion’s den herself.

Maybe she’s being overly cynical, which has been happening a lot lately, but just because Betty’s mom made a big show of how sorry she was in public doesn’t mean she wouldn’t immediately revert to being a smothering, PMSing, control freak as soon as Polly was back under her roof. Look at what she’s put Betty through! Veronica can only imagine how hard the Coopers must be on their ‘problem child’ if they give Betty that much grief. 

She drops another scrap of wrapping paper into the trash, glancing over at Mom, who is grimacing as she wipes down the counter. “So… that didn’t really go according to plan.”

“Your plan, mija, not mine,” Mom says simply, without looking up. “Polly’s a sweet girl, and I want her and her babies to be safe, but she’s almost eighteen. She can go where she likes.” 

Veronica doesn’t have to ponder this to work out that Mom’s lying. “Come on,” she rolls her eyes. “I saw the way you looked at Mrs. Blossom- you don’t like her any more than Alice Cooper does!” 

Veronica doesn’t like Penelope Blossom either; she’s the very definition of frosty old money, all pursed lips and plucked eyebrows and sneers hidden behind ‘polite smiles’. Maybe the Blossoms are serious about wanting to provide for Polly and the twins- which is still so weird to think about- but Veronica instinctively mistrusts them even more-so than she does the Coopers, and her instincts are usually correct. 

To her surprise, Mom doesn’t have some quippy retort about Penelope Blossom. Veronica studies her as her mother’s face turns to stone, and she says, so coldly the room temperature may as well have dropped a few degrees, “Whatever issues Alice has with Penelope, our family has much more reason to want to see them pay.”

Veronica arches an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean? Did they… do something to us? To Lodge Industries?”

Mom shakes her head curtly and wrings out the towel she’d been using in the sink, turning away from Veronica. “All I’m saying is that Alice, paranoid as she is, is right not to trust them.”

Yeah, sure. Veronica’s not buying that. Mom’s obviously not telling the full story here, which has to mean it involves Daddy. That’s generally the number one reason Mom lies, omits, or misleads about anything- because Daddy told her to or because she’s trying to protect him anyways. But just looking at Mom’s tense frames tells her that she’s not going to get anything more out of her, not without another blow-out fight, and it feels like they just got over their last one.

She finishes cleaning up the last of the gift wrapping, and she heads to her room, Mom calls after her, “Remember, Mr. Sowerberry is calling us tomorrow, to go over our statements at your father’s hearing. So think about what you want to say.”

Mr. Sowerberry is Daddy’s latest weaselly lawyer, and as for what Veronica wants to say- what is she supposed to do, get up there and lie about what a humanitarian Daddy is? Probably, Mom would say. Yes. She should do exactly that, because what’s important is them all being together again. As a family. But to be honest, Veronica is pretty sick and tired of ‘families’ at this point. As far as she can tell, all of her friends have pretty shitty ones.

Betty’s parents think it’s still 1958 and act accordingly, Archie’s Daddy’s a workaholic and his mom is AWOL in Chicago, Jughead’s… Well, there’s a lot to unpack with Jughead’s family, or lack of one, to be more precise, and Kevin’s Daddy is the bumbling sheriff and his mom is… overseas on some military base. So really, in terms of Riverdale certified poor parenting, Veronica fits right in with everyone else’s dysfunction. 

That doesn’t make her feel any better about it. Of course she misses Daddy, but… at this point she’s not sure if she misses him or just the idea of him. She has good memories of him, she misses feeling secure, like nothing could ever touch her or break through her unfazed ice queen aura, but… does she really miss Daddy himself? She’s not trying to say that he’s some kind of monster, but she can’t pretend it’s all some huge injustice either.

Objectively speaking, Daddy belongs in prison. He broke the law, and he’s probably not very sorry about it. If he wasn’t incredibly wealthy, they’d probably just lock him up and throw away the key. What makes him so much better than any other conman or thief who tricked people out of their savings and promoted bad business? The fact that he got away with it for so long?

On the other hand, if she tries to make a martyr out of herself and play the saint here, Daddy will want to kill her and Mom might just quite literally kill her. She can’t go up on the stand and betray her entire family. But… she can’t go up on the stand and lie and smile and pretend like Daddy doesn’t deserve what he got, either. There’s already way too much injustice in the world.

Which is exactly why, after Mom leaves for work the next morning, Veronica goes looking for the files Mom brought with them from New York. The ones the cops conveniently didn’t take. Veronica’s not supposed to know about them, but she does, because she’s extremely observant (or at least she likes to think so) and has been eavesdropping at closed doors since she was seven.

She finds the files in a box under Mom’s bed, which she carefully pulls out in such a way that she’ll be able to slide it back into place later so it doesn’t appear to have been moved. Then, hunched over on the floor like a little kid with her toys, she combs through the files, searching for Blossom, wishing they were digitized. After a solid ten minutes, Veronica finds what she’s looking for; records of payments from the Blossom Syrup Company to Lodge Industries, dating back over fifty years. Until they ended in May, when Daddy was arrested.

That’s… more than a little suspicious. Veronica isn’t sure she even wants to know why the Blossoms would be paying the Lodges, but if it’s not a public business dealing… than chances are it involves some more than a little illicit activities. And this gives the Blossoms real motive to want Daddy out of the picture. No more payments. And obviously they weren’t worried about him having enough evidence to drag him down with them in trial. 

She stows the files away, paces the room for a minute, and then decides that if she’s already gone this far, she might as well hack Mom’s email. Which she does, after a few failed attempts to guess the password, and she quickly combs through it in search of any emails mentioning the Blossoms. None. Mom at least covered her own tracks, if not Daddy’s. 

But she does have Mr. Sowerberry’s email address. Veronica internally debates for a few minutes before typing up a brief email that (she hopes) sounds enough like one Hermione Lodge to convince Sowerberry to bite the bait and (hopefully) reveal more about the Lodge-Blossom relationship. Or mutual hatred.

She then hides all record of the email having been sent, and waits. Mr. Sowerberry usually doesn’t waste any time in replying when a Lodge wants to talk. The longer she waits, the more she regrets it, though. Maybe he’ll wonder why Mom wouldn’t just speak to him privately over the phone about it. Maybe he’ll mention said email when he calls. Maybe this was actually a horrible, impulsive decision, like making out with Archie in a closet at Cheryl’s ‘my brother is dead!’ party. 

Maybe she’s actually a fucking idiot.

Sowerberry doesn’t reply, and Veronica finally closes the account with a growing sense of dread. Shit. Shit with a cherry on top. She needs to take some investigative lessons from Betty and Jughead, apparently. Although maybe if they actually invited her along on said Nancy Drew adventures, she’d have more experience in this field, and she wouldn’t have tried to impersonate her mother to get information she’s not supposed to know about from her parents’ lawyer.

Sowerberry calls later that day, while Veronica tries not to squirm at the kitchen table, as he and Mom go over her testimony of what a loving husband and father, what a devoted family man Hiram Lodge is, and that he doesn’t deserve to be separated from his wife and young daughter for any great length of time, because they miss him terribly. Then Mom hands the phone over to her, and goes to ‘freshen up’ in the bathroom.

“Hello, Veronica,” Sowerberry says. She can practically envision him adjusting his glasses. “Before we discuss your statement, I have a message from your father.” She can hear him clicking furiously on a computer. “Ah. Here we have it. Veronica, it’s in the best interests of both you and your mother that you don’t invade our privacy again. I love you, Ronnie, but your mother loves you more, and she’ll be heartbroken if our only child ends up with both parents in prison.”

Veronica stiffens at his mechanical intonation of her father’s words. “Tell Daddy,” she begins, venomously, “that he’s the only one in this family who's committed multiple felonies.”

“Are you so sure about that?” Sowerberry asks dryly, as Mom returns from the bathroom, smiling at Veronica.

“Go fuck yourself with a rake, Paul,” Veronica says under her breath, and hands the phone back to her mother. “We’re done with my statement.”

“That was quick,” Mom squeezes her shoulder affectionately. “I know you’ll make us very proud on Wednesday, mija.”

On Wednesday, Veronica testifies, and lies and smiles about her father, and as soon as the cabs pulls back up outside the Pembrooke, she is already composing the paragraphs long text to Betty on her phone. Daddy thinks he can hold Mom over her like an axe? He’s got another thing coming. Chuck Clayton comes back from suspension next week. If she didn’t let an overgrown testicle push her around, she’s not about to let her own father.

The Blossoms are going up in flames, one way or another, and Veronica’s not scared about the Lodge name getting a little singed anymore. It does make sense, if you think about it. The Blossoms try to take out Daddy, so he orders a hit on their pride and joy, Jason. She ignores the roiling in her stomach and the clamminess of her hands, and presses send.


	36. Chapter 36

Cheryl’s used to the unexpected. In fact, she delights in it. Mother and Daddy prize themselves on order and normalcy- everything’s fine, nothing to see here, move along- but she’s always craved chaos. In a genuine way, not a melodramatic teenaged blog ‘look how dark and mysterious I am’ way. Cheryl likes when things are spinning out of control because it makes her feel a little less overwhelmed and dizzy. If everyone’s on the same rollercoaster, that doesn’t make her the freak or the weirdo or the crazy bitch anymore, does it?

And the last few months have been nothing if not a roller coaster. If you had told her at this time last year that Polly Cooper would be living in her house, she probably would have choked to death on the hysterical laughter that followed. The very idea of her and Polly having anything in common would have been too much to even consider. They’re nothing alike. Their families are nothing alike. Their IQs are probably vastly different.

And yet… here she is, skipping school like some common delinquent because she’s not ready for the barrage of questions and conspiracy theories. Wandering around Thornhill with Polly as if they’re dear old friends. For the first time in a long time, Cheryl is unsure. Uncertain. Uneasy. She doesn’t know what to do. What is she supposed to do- offer to paint Polly’s nails or do her hair? Should they giggle over old pictures of Jason? Watch a romantic comedy together?

Polly seems similarly awkward, her hands never straying far from her disturbing bump, which Cheryl can’t stop glancing at as if transfixed. Polly is having twins. Jason’s twins. Cheryl’s niece and nephew. The whole thing seems like some absurd nightmare, and Cheryl’s been having a lot of absurd nightmares lately. Last night she dreamed Polly was rocking a baby with Jason’s exact face. Cheryl woke up both confused and horrified. 

For the rest of her life, she’s going to have to be around Polly. And Polly is going to have to be around her. They’re living in the same (admittedly massive) house, for God’s sake. Cheryl could pretend Polly doesn’t exist, or make her life miserable, but it’s not that simple now that they’re not in school, not in public. Cheryl’s not gossiping about Polly being a slut in the cafeteria anymore, and Polly’s not kissing Jason spitefully in retaliation before rushing off to class.

And it’s hard to continue with her line of ‘Polly did it’ when they’re in such close quarters. Cheryl’s not totally convinced that Polly doesn’t know more than she’s letting on, but she’s not… willing to stake her life on Polly having murdered Jason, either. If she really was guilty, why would she want to live with the family of her victim? She’s not some slasher movie villain who’s going to scamper around the mansion knifing people. And she’s definitely not cunning enough to have some master manipulation plan. 

So instead they’re in the midst of some sort of dull stare-down across the parlor, before Cheryl sighs dramatically and tosses aside her copy of Rebecca. “We might as well take the grand tour.” She stands up from the sofa, snapping her fingers at Polly, who is perched warily on the edge of an armchair. “Come on. We haven’t got all day.” Although they do, of course.

Polly hesitates, then stands up slowly, pulling at the baggy cardigan she’s wearing over her dress. Mother has gone and bought her a whole new wardrobe, of course, but so far Polly seems reluctant to wear any of it, probably because Mother has horrible taste in clothes and even a fashion gremlin like Polly Cooper recognizes that. Either way, Cheryl’s certainly not about to volunteer any of her castoffs, even if Polly could fit into them.

“I don’t think your parents would want us wandering around,” Polly says as she follows Cheryl out of the room.

Cheryl pauses, then turns to her with a hand on her hip, scoffing, “Are you serious right now, Polly? After everything, you’ve suddenly decided to be concerned about what adults want you to do or not do? That’s some delayed reaction time.”

Polly flushes. “I’m here as a guest, and your family has been really kind to me-,”

“Trust me,” Cheryl says, rolling her eyes, “if you weren’t five months pregnant with Jason’s offspring, you’d be rotting in a cell, courtesy of mes parents.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Polly snaps, the closest she’s come to genuine anger under the Blossom roof, and Cheryl is glad, because she feels less like some evil stepmother in a Victorian gothic novel now that Polly is fighting back a little. “And you know it, Cheryl.”

“Actually,” Cheryl turns away from her, stalking in the direction of the nearest door, “I don’t know know what the hell is going on at all anymore, Polly. Do any of us?” 

To her surprise, Polly follows her outside and into the expansive gardens out back. The trees are just starting to turn, pops of red and orange and gold, which brings a little cheeriness into the otherwise dreary October afternoon. The sky is threatening rain once again. Cheryl wouldn’t be surprised if the Sweetwater floods at least once by Halloween. Last Halloween she threw a costume party that was ranked across Twitter as The Party of 2016. This year she’ll be lucky to see a single pumpkin at Thornhill.

Halloween was always her favorite holiday because everyone was expected to be anyone or anything but themselves. She dragged Jason out trick-or-treating until ninth grade, when it was cooler to get wasted and sloppily make out with someone through their cheap drugstore makeup instead. Last year she went as Little Red Riding Hood, and Jason went as the Woodcutter. The hatchet he was carrying around all night was real- they used it to break open multiple bottles of hard liquor. 

He wasn’t officially with Polly yet, but she came as a fairy or an elf or a princess or something equally boring and predictable. 

“I don’t know what happened to Jason,” Polly says, a few feet behind Cheryl, “but I do know that I want his babies to be happy and safe and- and whatever I have to do to make that happen, I will.”

Cheryl can’t imagine anyone growing up ‘happy’ at Thornhill, but what’s the alternative? There’s no way the Coopers would ever accept the twins. They want Polly back, not her children. Polly could go to another group home or shelter, one that wasn’t going to take the babies from her, but then what after that? Eighteen years as a struggling single mother in some shoebox apartment, working two jobs and coming home to ungrateful brats?

Polly is clearly waiting for her to say something- either some quick-witted, nasty rebuttal, or to cave at least a little and agree to let bygones be bygones. Instead a few minutes while away in cold silence, before Cheryl exhales slowly, watching her breath mist out in front of her. It shouldn’t be this cold yet. Summer only ended two weeks ago. But it already feels like winter.

“What was your and Jason’s first date?” she asks instead, flatly.

Polly takes a moment to respond. “We ordered food from Pop’s and went down by the river, so no one would see us eating together.” Her tone lightens somewhat. “I was so shy and nervous around him I could barely say anything, but he didn’t mind.”

Jason did always hate small talk. Cheryl feels vaguely ill and shaky, so she folds her arms across her chest as if to ward off the cold and damp in the air. “Let’s go see Nana Rose.”

Nana Rose lives in the attic of Thornhill, which sounds like elder abuse but isn’t really since the attic’s actually quite nice, as far as manor attics go. Cheryl’s watched plenty of horror films in which attics didn’t contain batty, but ultimately harmless grandmothers, but instead multiple corpses or proof of incestuous relations or malcontent demons. Still, Polly looks as though she expects Cheryl to shove her into some crawlspace and throw away the key at any second, and maybe she’s right to be concerned. 

Nana Rose is, as usual, in her rocking chair by the small window overlooking the grounds, reading. She squints up at them as Cheryl enters, Polly cautiously following after, and her pale, wrinkled face breaks into a beam, from which you can just barely discern the green-eyed, red haired, magnetic beauty she once was, which tempted a tyrant like Chester Blossom into marrying a penniless immigrant.

“Girls,” she says, “you came to see me again.”

Cheryl is always slightly uncomfortable around Nana, although Jason used to sit up here and read to her for hours, or play the violin for her. But Polly brightens as though she and Rose are old friends, and scurries over to squeeze the woman’s gaunt hands in her own. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Fate finds a way,” Rose says cryptically, and turns her glassy gaze on Cheryl, who forces herself not to look away or grimace. “And little Cheryl… you’ve been so sad and empty, dear. The house is too quiet without you and Jason. I used to listen to you two play all day…” she trails off, and Polly’s eyes look wet. 

“I’m fine, Nana,” Cheryl says tightly, not sure why she thought it’d be a good idea to come up here in the first place. Is she doing for this for Polly, or for herself? Or for Jason? 

Rose tuts, and glances at Polly, or more specifically, her stomach. “Twins,” she breathes reaching out a hand, “I knew it’d be twins. Jason’s not really dead, you see, darling girl, not with part of him living on in you. I remember when he and Cheryl were born; it was a terrible storm, you see. There’ll be snow on the ground when yours come, so we’ll see then, won’t we?”

Her gaze drifts down to Polly’s hands. “But you’re not wearing his ring- I knew Penelope would get her hands on it, one way or another,” she sighs.

Polly flushes bright red. “Jason- Jason had the ring, when he… the last time I saw him.” Her voice becomes painfully small and thin, and for the first time Cheryl feels a small pittering of sympathy, because she feels the same way. Even if she could strangle Jason’s corpse with her bare hands for thinking to give Polly a family fucking ring.

Rose is shaking her head slowly. “No, my sweet girl. Penelope has it now- she was always so… close-fisted. Why, it’s sitting in her jewelry box, yes it is.”

“Nana, you saw Mother with Jason’s ring?” Cheryl blurts out in surprise; Polly looks stunned as well. How did Mother even get it back from him? Did he come back home? Or leave it somewhere? 

“I didn’t see, no,” Rose muses, and then smiles thinly. “I heard. My Clifford was never very good about keeping his voice down… no matter how many times I warned him how sound carries in this house… Silly man.”

“Your parents got the ring back from Jason?” Polly turns to Cheryl, who feels her cheeks flood with heat. This doesn’t make any sense. Jason left. How and when would they have seen him to get the ring back? Jason wouldn’t have voluntarily handed it over. 

“For all we know, the ring could still be at the bottom of the river,” she says defensively instead, although Nana’s stare is pinioning her in place.

“He was going to give that ring to me!” Polly is close to tears, as if the ring even really counts for anything. It’s not as if they were engaged. It’s not as if having the ring means anything at all. She and Jason were just boyfriend and girlfriend. If he told he wanted to get married someday, it was just to appease her or calm her down. He never would have actually gone through with it. But Cheryl would have said the same thing about the idea of Jason running away with Polly, and now all the evidence suggests that he was planning to do just that. 

Before she can say anything else, Polly has brushed past her and towards the stairs, their roles temporarily reversed. “Where are you going?” Cheryl demands, ignoring the nagging worry in the back of her head that Polly is going to trip going down the narrow, rickety stairwell. It’s a miracle Nana Rose can even make it up and down anymore, cane or not. 

“To get our ring back!” Polly snaps, and Cheryl freezes for a moment before rushing after her, feeling her grandmother’s queer smile on the back of her neck all the while. Rose might be demented, but she’s still a Blossom through and through, and one who, like Cheryl, might enjoy a good storm a little more than she ought to.


	37. Chapter 37

Archie is surprised when he sees Veronica marching over to him and Kevin at lunch. It seems like she’s been holed up with Betty and Jughead in the Blue & Gold’s office all week. He’s been coming in to help from time to time, but he’s still got football to worry about. Besides, he’s not officially part of the school newspaper, and if he cuts class Coach is gonna kill him. 

“Death approaches,” says Kevin melodramatically at the sound of her heels clicking across the cracked blacktop, without looking up from his book. Their English class is reading Lord of the Flies. 

“I need to talk to you about something,” Veronica tells Archie insistently, adjusting the shiny black leather strap of her bag. She glances at Kevin, who sighs loudly, flipping a page.

“I guess I’ll survive the last ten minutes of lunch alone.” He’d usually be desperate to get the latest scoop, but Archie figures he’s going through some kind of information fatigue, since it’s been nothing but dramatic revelation after dramatic revelation for the past two months. 

There’s also the fact that Kevin’s sort-of-kind-of dating a Serpent named Joaquin, not that anyone knows but Archie, who apparently is the picture of trust ‘because he’s the only one left with a semi-normal life’. So maybe that’s been eating up a lot of his free time too.

Frowning, Archie finishes off the last of his chocolate milk and stands up with his tray, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Veronica seems to suppress a grimace as she leads him past the dumpsters, which he tosses his trash into, and away from the lunch area, towards a grove of trees near the athletic fields.

“So,” Archie shoves his hands in his pockets. “What’s up?” He’s still slightly uneasy around Veronica, mostly because the last time they were actually alone together was a month ago, when they made out at Cheryl’s party. In a closet. Right after he turned down Betty. And then it was all over Snapchat.

“I need you to help me break into Jughead’s father’s trailer,” Veronica says matter of factly, completely straight-faced, tucking a dark lock of hair behind her ear. After a moment she gives her best winning smile, to which Archie responds with utter bafflement.

“You… why?” he finally asks, already dreading the answer.

“Because I think he might have killed Jason Blossom on my father’s orders,” Veronica replies without hesitation. 

That really doesn’t clear much up for Archie, who only stares all the more. He’d been vaguely aware that they thought Hiram Lodge might be somehow involved with the Blossoms, but it seems like a pretty big leap to conclude that he ordered the hit on their son. “Because…?”

“Because I think the Blossoms had my father arrested to get out of a bad business deal with him, and in retaliation he had Jason abducted and murdered,” Veronica says impatiently, as if it should all be very obvious. “Maybe it was initially to hold him for ransom or something, and when Mr. Blossom didn’t pay up…”

“Okay,” Archie says slowly, drawing out the words like molasses, “but what does that have to do with FP? I don’t think Jug’s dad has so much as ever looked at a Blossom.”

“Jughead’s dad is a gang leader,” Veronica pinches her nose as if she’s a harried teacher trying to explain a concept to a bewildered student. “And he’s got the resources and the rap sheet to abduct Jason, keep him somewhere for a week or so, and then dump the body in the river. And obviously he would have been handsomely rewarded.”

“FP gets locked up for being drunk and disorderly and speeding and getting into bar fights,” Archie says, crossing his arms against his chest. “Not… kidnapping teenagers and murdering them.” He can’t say he likes Jughead’s dad, especially not after everything he’s put Jug through, but there’s a big difference between thinking someone’s kind of a scumbag and believing them capable of cold-blooded murder. 

“Betty thinks he gave Jason the drugs that were in the car in the woods,” Veronica argues. 

“That doesn’t mean he then went on to kill him,” Archie retorts.

She huffs, looks like she wants to say more, and then closes her mouth before opening it again after a tense moment. “I’m not saying I’m 100% sure he did it. But it is a possibility, and right now, it’s the best lead we have, okay?”

There is no way, Archie thinks critically, that this is just about Veronica wanting to solve Jason’s murder. Not that he thinks she doesn’t care, but she’s not devoted to it the way Betty and Jughead are. No, this is definitely about her dad. He doesn’t know what’s going on with the Lodges, and isn’t sure he wants to. And he should probably just walk away.

But instead, like a chump, he stays put, and says, “So why are you telling me this? What about Betty and Jug?”

“I’m not going to come right and tell my best friend that I suspect her boyfriend’s father of murder,” Veronica says indignantly. “Look, I know Jughead and his dad don’t get along, but he’s never going to consider the possibility that this entire time the culprit’s been right under everyone’s noses.”

She does sort of have a point. Jughead might want to hate his dad, might even really hate his dad some days, but in the end… his dad is still his dad, even if he’s currently camping out at Archie’s place. And while Betty might want to crack this case wide open, Archie’s not entirely sure that she’d do it at the cost of… whatever is going on with her and Jughead. They definitely haven’t come out and said they’re dating or anything, and they’re not making out by the lockers, but more and more people are starting to notice that something’s clearly… at work there.

“So…,” Archie exhales slowly. Fuck this. This is crazy, and he’s seen and heard a lot of crazy shit over the course of the past few weeks. Veronica and him are friends, technically, but it’s not like he owes her anything. 

What he should be doing is keeping his head down and focusing on football and his music. But instead he finds himself caving. Whatever her reasons, he thinks Veronica has (mostly) good intentions. And she’s asking for his help, specifically. 

“So?” Veronica arches a dark eyebrow, and his stomach twists with attraction and wariness in equal measure. She’s one of those girls who’s too pretty for her own good. He means that in the nicest way possible.

“So tonight FP probably won’t be home,” he says. “It’s a Friday night, he’ll be out drinking at the Whyte Wyrm. Especially since… Jughead left. We can go tonight. I know where they keep the spare key. But we have to be fast. And we can’t take anything- he’s kind of an alcoholic, but he’s not an idiot. If something’s gone he’ll notice.”

“Sounds good,” Veronica flashes a blinding white smile at him, and he blinks, ignoring the heat in his cheeks. “I’ll meet you there at ten tonight.”

“It’s a date,” Archie mutters half-heartedly as she starts to walk away, not realizing she can still hear him, and goes even redder at her peal of laughter. 

It’s pitch black by the time they meet outside Sunnyside. Archie has never been here this late at night before, and consequently is on edge as a result; what if they run into some Serpents? Jughead’s not here to step in with FP’s shadow hovering over them. And if Dad finds out Archie is here… Yeah, that’s going to be a whole new disaster to deal with.

He already regrets ever agreeing to this, but it’s too late now, although he does almost jump when Veronica suddenly comes walking up out of the gloom and fog like some dame from a 1940s film noir. Who shows up at a trailer park in heeled leather boots?

“Lead the way,” she says a lot more confidently than he feels, and he uncertainly sets off towards the Jones trailer, almost hoping FP’s car is there so they can call the whole thing off. Although knowing Veronica, she’d just want to come back tomorrow night. 

Part of the irony of this whole thing is that they’re both out here under the noses of their parents… who are currently out on a date. And Jughead is over at Betty’s, taking advantage of the fact that her parents are still working late on the paper every night.

Talk about convenient.

But the Firebird is gone, and the trailer is dark. Archie ignores the faint sounds of TV’s crackling, dogs barking, and drunk and/or high couples fighting shrilly, and steps up to the front stoop, crouching down and rooting under the wooden step until his hand closes around a big rock. He lifts it up and swipes out the spare key. Jughead showed him this once in ninth grade. 

He glances back at Veronica, wishing she’d look nervous or unsure or something so they’d have an excuse not to do this, but her face is set in determination, and instead he swallows and steps up to the front door, trying to unlock it as quietly as possible. The last thing they need is some neighbor spotting them and heading down to the Wyrm to warn FP that a couple of high schoolers are trying to rob him.

Archie really doesn’t want to end up on the six o’clock local news.

The door swings open with a quiet groan, and Archie slowly steps into the trailer, ignoring the rush of bad feelings it brings, since the last time he was in here he and Jughead were in the midst of one of their worst fights ever. Veronica has no such hesitation and breezes by him, reaching for a lamp, but Archie instinctively grabs her arm.

“Wait, what if someone sees the light? Use your phone.”

To his surprise, she doesn’t snap at him or roll her eyes, and instead nods. “Good point.”

They both pull at their phones and set about prowling around the trailer; it’s not as if there’s all that much space to cover, given how cramped it is. Veronica tackles the living room, rooting through papers on the stained coffee table and feeling under the couch cushions, while Archie ventures into the kitchen, wincing at all the empty bottles on the counter and the stale smell lingering in the air.

He checks the cabinets and the fridge, for what, he’s not sure, and feels sort of guilty about it all the while, even if Jughead isn’t living here anymore.

When Veronica’s done with the living room they both poke around in the tiny hall closet and cluttered bathroom, before turning to the bedrooms. “I’ll take Jughead’s,” Archie says immediately- letting Veronica go through Jughead’s room, even if he hasn’t been in it regularly in weeks- feels like some kind of betrayal.

Veronica shrugs and heads into FP’s bedroom, and Archie steps into his best friend’s room. He’s only been in here a couple times- Jughead never liked to have him over, preferring to hang out at Archie’s house, to no one’s shock- but it does feel very… Jughead. It’s a mess, of course, covers falling off the bed, books and old school papers scattered across the floor, a mass of wires under the desk. 

Archie’s not going to actually search it, so instead he sits down gingerly on the bed, and stares at the faded carpeting on the floor, and the posters peeling off the flimsy walls. It doesn’t feel like a real room in a real house; it’s more like a movie set or something, which maybe Jughead would appreciate. It feels hollow and empty and achingly shallow, somehow, and it almost makes Archie want to cry, although he doesn’t know if he’d be crying for Jughead or himself.

Probably Jughead, who arguably has had the far worse childhood, of the two of them. Yeah, Archie’s mom left too, but it’s not like she just took off in the middle of the night. At least he had the option to leave with her. Jughead just got… left behind. Like an old toy or a useless part. This whole trailer feels left behind, abandoned even through there’s someone still living in it.

Maybe that’s the worst part. 

After a few minutes he gets up and steps cautiously into FP’s room, where Veronica is staring into an open bedside drawer. “Did you find something?” he whispers, but she shakes her head mutely.

Archie walks over to her and peers into the drawer, illuminated by her phone light, and stares at a picture of what can only be a young FP and Gladys. FP has to be in his late twenties, since Jughead’s mom is at least a decade younger than her husband, but he still looks boyish, grinning slyly with his arms wrapped around his girlfriend. With his hair longer, he looks a lot more like Jug, but it’s clear that Gladys gave him her smile.

Archie doesn’t ever remembering seeing Mrs. Jones smile when he knew her, however briefly that was. They look happy. And not fake ‘smile for the camera’ happy, but genuinely thrilled to be together, sitting on FP’s motorcycle in the summer sunshine, young and fresh-faced and completely oblivious as to what the next fifteen or so years will bring.

Veronica shuts the drawer suddenly, and is very quiet. “There’s nothing in here,” she snaps after a moment. “Except beer cans and condoms and ratty clothes. Nothing.” 

Archie steps forward to shut the closet door she left open, but not before peering inside for a few moments. He checks under the bed as well, and in between the battered headboard and the wall. She’s right. Nothing. Nothing incriminating or suspicious or even all that odd for a washed up guy who’s driven away everyone who ever cared about him.

“Fuck!” Veronica hisses, too loudly, and Archie whirls around.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing here!”

“Keep your voice down,” he urges. Why is she freaking out like this? Was she really this set on her ‘FP-did-it’ theory?

But she just shakes her head, and to his complete shock, starts to cry. Veronica Lodge. Starts crying in front of him. In FP Jones’ bedroom. It feels like some fucked up adlibs. Somehow, he manages to grab her by the hand and lead her, sobbing hoarsely as if someone just died in front of her, out of the house. He swiftly locks the door behind them and hides the key, and, praying no one hears them leaving, practically frog-marches her out of the trailer park.

He only relaxes once they reach his bike. “What’s going on?” he demands; mascara is streaming down her face, and her eyes are puffy and red. She’s scaring him. He’s never seen Veronica this… undone before. Not even when they were kind of wasted and making out in a closet. She was still poised, even then.

But not right now.

“I don’t know,” she finally rasps aloud, “I don’t fucking know, I just- I thought- my dad-,” she chokes a little, and Archie pulls her close, not thinking about it until it’s too late.

“Your dad sounds like a real asshole,” he says, more into her hair, which smells really nice, than anywhere else. “No offense, Veronica.”

“No,” she says, muffled into his sweatshirt, and he could get used to the feeling of her there, of her mouth moving against his chest, and he feels even worse and almost lets go of her. “No, he- he is,” she sputters a watery laugh. “He really kind of is.”

Then after a few moments more, she lets go of him, and stands up on her tiptoes slightly to brush a kiss across his cheek. “Thanks, Archie.”

“No problem,” he says, wondering if he’s ever going to get the full story from her, or anyone, really, but disturbed by how little he cares, in this moment, wishing she’d go back to clinging to him, because he forgot how much he missed that. 

Two hours later the cops show up at Sunnyside with a warrant, and it all goes to shit. But maybe he should have predicted that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping to wrap up this story (that being the essential plot of season 1) by Chapter 40, so we'll see how that goes. Thanks for sticking with this.


	38. Chapter 38

Jughead sits on a hard plastic chair outside the sheriff’s office, staring at the cracked linoleum floor. On the other side of the door, Archie is being read the riot act by both Sheriff Keller and his dad for breaking into the trailer. He’s not going to get charged with anything because he’s an Andrews and a ‘good kid’; the nepotism in this town doesn’t end with the Blossoms. On this side of the door, Jughead is sitting in slightly numb shock while Betty holds his hand, which he can’t really feel except for a dull tingling.

He doesn’t know what to think; he should be furious with Archie for letting Veronica talking him into searching their trailer, but Archie is currently arguing that there’s no way the gun the cops found was there when he and Veronica were there, so it’s hard to be too outraged. There’s also the fact that not much else seems to matter in the face of his father being arrested and charged with murder. Betty’s skinny fingers are probing soothing circles into his dry palm. He yanks his hand away, ignoring her wounded look.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says quietly, just as the door swings open and Sheriff Keller is loudly overhead snapping, “That’d be a little difficult given that he confessed, Fred!” as he escorts Mr. Andrews and Archie out of the room. Fred Andrew looks like he’s just seen a ghost, despite his obvious fury with his son, and Archie is wavering between shamefaced guilt and strident defensiveness. 

“Why would he confess?” he demands, before glancing over at Jughead and quieting, gaze darting away like a frightened animal.

“I’m done discussing the details of this case with a couple of high schoolers,” Keller looks as if he’s aged several years over the course of the past month or so, massaging his weathered brow. “It’s six in the morning. You should be getting them all home, Fred. Especially Miss Cooper-,” he looks pointedly at Betty, whose parents one-hundred-percent don’t know she’s here, not that they’re in any state to be noticing that, what with the war currently being waged in the Cooper household over Polly and the twins.

At that moment, the doors of the station burst open and Alice Cooper comes stalking up the steps, heels clicking menacingly. “Oh, good,” she says with an impressive level of false cheer, “I was just here to file a missing persons report, and here she is, my own missing daughter. Betty, car. Now.” She narrows her eyes at Keller. “I hear you made a rather impressive arrest last night, Sheriff.”

Keller looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than right here, dealing with Alice Cooper before he’s even had his second cup of coffee. 

Betty picks up her bag and stands up, glancing down at Jughead, who hasn’t moved from his slumped position, worriedly. “I can stay if you need me to.”

“You should go before you get in even more trouble,” he says tonelessly without looking up at her, and feels a pang of guilt as she nods and walks quickly away, shoulders hunched with tension as she passes her seething mother. It’s not that he’s mad at her or doesn’t want her around it’s just- it’s hard to even think about her right now, with his dad rotting in a cell yards away. Suddenly everything seems so… insignificant. 

Dad could go to jail for the rest of his life. A tentative high school romance doesn’t really seem to hold much water in comparison. He knows Betty cares, and Archie, and probably even Veronica, but that doesn’t really change the current situation. Dad confessed. How is that even possible? This entire time, up until last week, anyways, he’s been living with the murderer? He feels like he’s caught in the middle of some true crime special. This doesn’t feel real. He keeps expecting to wake up from some surreal dream.

“Son,” he looks up balefully at Keller, who has Mr. Andrews and a desk cop fending off Mrs. Cooper and her tape recorder, for the time being. “If you want to talk to your dad, now is the time, before he’s arraigned. Higher-ups would have my hide if they knew I was doing this…” he sighs, “but I can give you five minutes. Door has to stay open.”

Jughead has never been under the impression that Sheriff Keller liked him, but maybe he just looks so pathetic sitting here in one of Archie’s hoodies and baggy sweatpants tucked into his boots that it inspired an act of charity. Either way, he gets to his feet and shuffles in the right direction, no matter how unsteady he might feel. This is real. He’s not dreaming or hallucinating. Dad had the gun. All this time, Dad had the gun and Dad shot Jason and dumped his rotting corpse in the river and all this time…

FP isn’t huddled in some dark cell; he’s handcuffed to the table in a too-bright room, squinting blearily, hair hanging in his face. Jughead takes the seat across from him, feeling like a ghost or a shadow or the remnant of a boy, not sure his father even sees him until he looks directly at him. Jughead wants to say something, but it’s like his lips are stitched shut. Instead he just looks at Dad and wants to cry and scream at the same time. This can’t be real. This doesn’t feel real.

“Never thought you’d see your old man like this, huh?” FP rasps.

“Shut up,” Jughead grounds out. Dad looks older, in this light, and not the dimness of the trailer or the bar or the inside of his car. He can see the lines in his face, the faintest hint of grey emerging in his dark hair. He looks exhausted and aging, not virile and confident. He looks like a dead man. Jughead struggles to string a sentence together. “You confessed.” It should be a question but it’s not.

“Didn’t see the point in drawing this shit out any longer,” FP gives a careless little shrug like he’s still a highschool player. His handcuffs rattle. “I’m man enough to admit when I’m out of tricks up my sleeve, Jug.”

“Don’t,” Jughead snaps. “Just- don’t. How- you shot him.” It rings hollow and flat. He feels like he’s reciting lines in a play or something. This doesn’t… 

“Yeah,” says FP, a little louder, “yeah. I shot him. In the head. Kid didn’t suffer.”

“You tortured him!”

“He was going to fuck me over,” Dad says, enunciating each syllable. “$1000, down the fuckin’ drain with that little shit. And he was threatening to rat my whole operation out the entire time. I couldn’t take the risk and just let him run off.”

Jughead stares at the man across the metal table from him and doesn’t recognize his eyes, his mouth, the shape of his nose. He doesn’t see anything of himself in FP, for the first time. “You…” he trails off; he runs out of saliva and swallows hard.

“At least you can say your pops wasn’t a fuckin’ pussy, huh?” FP leans back slightly in his seat, tries a smile, that is really just a contortion of muscles around his mouth. “Don’t give me that kicked puppy look, Jughead. You really this shocked? I was running a business, just like every other asshole in this town. I did what I had to do. I did it for us.”

At that, his voice cracks like a teenager’s, and Jughead is disgusted and confused and somehow embarrassed for him, and he leaves. FP doesn’t call after him or laugh. It’s not like in the movies. He just sits there, lets Jughead go, the way he’s always let everything go, slip through his fingers right before the bear trap snaps shut so he can rail at God and gravity for letting him drop it.

Outside, Mrs. Cooper is being escorted out, not at gunpoint, but probably approaching that, given the volume level. Archie is nowhere to be seen; Mr. Andrews probably made him go sit in the car like a misbehaving dog or something. Someone is screaming shrilly. It takes Jughead a few seconds to realize that it’s Cheryl; the Blossoms are here, sans Polly, and while Sheriff Keller and Mr. Blossom are trying to have a conversation, Mrs. Blossom is trying and failing to restrain Cheryl, who is shrieking and weeping like she’s Ophelia in Hamlet. 

Then she sees Jughead, and she goes taut, like a fox, and rips away from her mother, stalking towards him. Jughead has never been attracted to Cheryl, which is an impressive feat for a sixteen year old boy, but in this moment he almost is, because in the harsh fluorescent lighting and the gray-beige background of the station, her vibrant red hair and black dress stand out all the more as she bears down on him like a predator.

Her hand whips across his face, and Jughead stumbles back as Cheryl launches herself at him like a hellcat, yelling and sobbing and spitting and scratching, backing him into a bulletin board, fingers hooking and tearing at his face, his hair, his clothes. “I WANT HIM DEAD!” she howls, and he doesn’t know if she’s talking about Dad or him or both of them but then she’s pulled off him by Mrs. Blossom and another cop, pinning her arms behind her back, and Jughead feels an unfamiliar weight in his sweatshirt pocket. Breathing slowly, in and out, as Mr. Andrews approaches, he snakes a hand inside and his fingers close around unfamiliar metal, hard and cold and almost silken smooth.

Cheryl is staring at him as she’s hustled out of the station, her eyes flat and haunted, like she’s possessed or something. Jughead stares back, then blinks, the spell broken. He doesn’t take the object out of his pocket as Mr. Andrews wraps a sheltering arm around him and ushers him out a side door and around into the cold parking lot. They stop near his truck. 

“I’m sorry, Jug,” he says. “You don’t deserve any of this. Look, I’m gonna try to get ahold of your mother this weekend. Alright? That or the state of New York will.”

“Are they gonna put me in the system?” Jughead asks hollowly; this has been threatened by school administrators and guidance counselors on numerous occasions since middle school.

“They’re gonna try to get your mom back in town ASAP,” Fred says kindly, “and if that doesn’t work out, I’m more than prepared to talk to your social worker, okay? You’ll always have a place with us.”

“O-okay,” Jughead stammers like a little kid, flushes in shame, and then, to his mortification, feels his eyes well up with tears. He sobs noiselessly, and feels Archie’s dad press him against his solid, warm chest once more. He can’t remember the last time his dad hugged him, the last time any member of his family even looked at him with anything… With anything…

After a moment he clambers inside the truck to squeeze beside Archie, while Mr. Andrews get in the other side, says pointedly to Archie, “I don’t wanna hear shit from you at all this weekend, got it? You don’t leave this house. The both of you, I want you home.”

“Yes sir,” says Archie, without a hint of sarcasm or sullenness; he looks stricken.

Jughead just nods, his head against the window as they pull out of their space. He has a scratch on the inside of his wrist from Cheryl. She must have known playing the lunatic girl was the only way she’d be able to give him it without anyone noticing. It’s not as if they’ve ever spoken so much as casually to one another. He rubs his fingers almost greedily against the cool metal of the ring. He doesn’t know what it is, why she wanted him to have it, but it feels reassuring, almost.

Ten minutes later, they pull into the Andrews’ driveway, and all three of them silently trudge into the house. Fred walks wordlessly into the kitchen. Jughead wouldn’t be surprised if he was looking for a drink. It’s been that kind of morning, after all. He follows Archie upstairs, floor creaking underfoot. 

“I’m sorry,” Archie says, as he opens the door to his room. “I really am, Jug. I didn’t- I didn’t mean to fuck things up, I just… I thought I was doing the right thing. With Veronica. But I know it was stupid, I know we shouldn’t have-,”

“You tried,” Jughead cuts him off, and then closes the door behind them as Archie sits down on his bed with a sigh. “You tried, okay? Has to count for something. But…” he fumbles in his pocket, and pulls out the ring. Archie stares at it.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Cheryl Blossom,” Jughead says. “Why would Cheryl Blossom want me to have her ring?”

Archie looks at it for a moment longer, brow furrowed, and then says, “Maybe it’s not hers.”


	39. Chapter 39

Betty slams the car door a little too hard on her way out, walking up the house with Mom hot on her heels. “I can’t believe you, Elizabeth,” Mom is hissing under her breath as she pulls out her keys. “The last thing I need right now is to be tracking you down, with your sister locked up in that mansion and your father-,” she hesitates, and then shakes her head as she unlocks the front door.

It’s on the tip of Betty’s tongue, that she knows. But she’s not going to say it, can’t say it, because that will make it real. Her parents have never been ones for screaming matches or shouting at each other. All of their fights have always been hushed, under wraps, gone on behind closed doors. But last week, when they thought she was asleep- well, she wasn’t, of course, she was up texting Veronica and Kevin, as usual. 

And she listened at her bedroom door as her parents fiercely debated not just Dad trying to make Polly have an abortion, but Dad not telling Polly that Jason is actually her cousin. That Cliff Blossom and Hal Cooper’s grandfathers were brothers. That the Blossoms are part Cooper and the Coopers are part Blossom. Which makes Cheryl, what, Betty’s third cousin? She doesn’t know, but she does know that she’s felt like throwing up ever since.

The whole thing is like something out of a soap opera- not only did Dad go behind Mom’s back with Polly, he didn’t even tell Mom that Polly and Jason were actually related until they started dating, and neither of them ever sat Polly down and told her. Which is the stupidest thing ever, because maybe, Betty thinks indignantly, this whole mess could have been avoided if they’d put their pride and vanity aside for five minutes and been honest with their children.

Mom and Dad might hate the Blossoms, but they sure act like them sometimes. And now Betty doesn’t know what to do, because she can’t just go around telling everyone that her sister was in a semi-incestuous relationship and that she and Cheryl share a family tree. No one would believe that in a million years without DNA evidence, anyways, and it doesn’t really have anything to do with the case. 

Well, aside from Dad being the one to trash Sheriff Keller’s evidence board while he was out, because he was concerned he’d find out about the Blossom-Cooper connection. Even Mom seemed horrified by that. At this point, Betty doesn’t know what to think, or how to think. Her parents seem like they’re in a different universe at this point. Jason is dead, she doesn’t believe FP did it, and that means multiple lives are going to be ruined all because none of the adults in this town can stop lying to themselves.

Her parents’ marriage falling apart seems to matter very little, in the grand scheme of things. Betty tunes out most of Mom’s ensuing lecture, and goes up to her room before she can be ordered up there. Knowing Mom, she’s going to try to confiscate her phone at some point, which means she needs to act fast. Luckily, for once Archie works faster. She has multiple new texts from him.

**cheryl snuck jughead her ring.**

****

****

**no her brothers ring. it has to be some kind of clue right**

**?**

Betty sits on the edge of her bed, her mind racing. The ring. This is the ring that Nana Rose thought Jason was giving to Polly. So how did Cheryl get it? The ring wasn’t found on Jason’s body. If Cheryl has it, that means she must have found it at home. So how did the ring that Jason had end up back with the Blossoms? Did his parents force him to give it back? That doesn’t make any sense. They didn’t know he had it in the first place.

Unless they somehow found out he was leaving with Polly. But in that case, wouldn’t they have forced him to come home or sent him away, like Mom did with Polly? She scrunches her eyes shut, trying to think in the dark and silence. Rain is pattering on her bedroom window. Veronica’s dad was screwed over by the Blossoms and the initial theory- that Veronica had, anyways, according to Archie- was that her dad hired FP to get back at them by killing Jason.

But that seems like an exceptionally stupid move for Hiram Lodge. How could he trust that FP, one of the most notoriously untrustworthy people to ever walk the earth, wouldn’t just take the money and throw him under the bus? Serpents aren’t really fans of rich capitalists from the city. And besides, if that was true, where was the gun when Archie and Veronica searched the trailer? Keller said they found it in the closet. Guns don’t teleport.

And frankly, Betty doesn’t think FP is dumb enough to just keep the murder weapon in his home for months. Why wouldn’t he toss it in the river with Jason, or even bury it out in the woods? It seems like a set-up. So say Hiram and FP didn’t do it. Who does that leave? Who else would want Jason dead? Her own parents? But they both have alibis for the time period in which Jason was murdered. Keller’s not that stupid- the pregnant girlfriend’s parents are still pretty high up on the initial suspect list.

So what about the Blossoms themselves? Betty is starting to think that she and Jughead should have searched the master bedroom, not Jason’s room, during that wake. That maybe something has been staring them in the face the whole time. The Blossoms are cold blooded, controlling, and vicious when it comes to their children disobeying them. But why would they kill Jason? Even Cheryl says he was their golden boy. They could have just shipped him off to boarding school or something.

But if the Lodges were involved in some not-so-legal business dealings with the Blossoms… maybe they have more to hide than their son knocking up his cousin-girlfriend. Could they be threatening FP to keep him from talking? But how did FP get involved in the first place? She opens her eyes and lies back on her bed with a sigh. Her mind’s just going in circles at this point. Maybe she’s overthinking things.

And then her phone buzzes, loudly. Betty fumbles with it and realizes with a start that Kevin is calling her. Kevin never calls. Ever. He’s not a phone call person. He’s a rapid fire text, don’t wait for a reply person. If he’s calling, something is seriously wrong. But she can hear Mom downstairs. Betty looks around frantically, then jams her desk chair under her bedroom door, which doesn’t lock, of course. Then she grabs her phone and wriggles into her own closet, to hopefully muffle the sounds of the phone call.

“Kevin?” she answers in a hoarse whisper. “What’s wrong?”

Kevin isn’t whispering, but he’s obviously keeping his voice down. “Look, Betty, this is going to sound crazy- okay, it is kind of crazy- but you just have to trust me.”

“Where are you?” Betty hisses. “Is your dad around?”

“No, he’s at the station- I’m at my house, with Joaquin.”

“Kev, if your dad comes home and finds him with you-,”

“I know, I know,” Kevin snaps. “But listen. Joaquin- he knows FP. They’re… well, FP’s helped him out, after his mom went to prison and he was on his own. You need to go back to Route 40. Like, right now. Before the Blossoms get there. They think they torched it but they didn’t.”

“Wait, what?” Betty says too loudly, and then tenses. She can hear Mom on the stairs. “Joaquin’s saying the Blossoms torched Jason and Polly’s car? And the drugs? Is he a witness to something? You have to tell your dad-,”

“Joaquin’s not telling my dad shit,” Kevin interrupts her. “He’s not really a fan of the police, Betty, okay? And besides, it could get him in trouble too. But look, FP’s being framed.”

“I know that!”

“No, he’s being set up to take the fall by the Blossoms. Or one of the Blossoms. I don’t know,” Kevin is speaking so fast his words are slurring together now. “But there’s evidence off Route 40 that will help everything. The Blossoms thought they got rid of it but they didn’t and you need to go get it, right now, before they go back for it and destroy it. Look for Jason’s jacket.”

“Jason’s jacket?”

“Look, I have to go-,”

Her door is rattling now. “Betty?” Mom says shrilly outside. “Are you on the phone? Open this door right now, Elizabeth Cooper!”

Kevin hangs up on her, Betty stands in the dark of her closet for a moment longer, and then bursts out, shoving her phone in her back pocket, grabbing her jacket from her bed, and making for her window.

“Betty!” Mom sounds almost scared. “You need to let me in, honey, tell me what’s wrong. Is this about Jughead Jones?”

Betty’s ears are ringing. She shoves open her window, scrambles out onto the roof of the front porch, and goes slipping and sliding over to the edge, before clambering down, hand over hand, until she loses her grip and falls five feet or so to the wet ground. Luckily she lands on her stomach, and not on her back. She lays there for a moment in shock, before the adrenaline kicks in and she’s sprinting across the street to Archie’s house.

She pounds on the door for a few moments before Archie opens it, Jughead right behind him. “Betty, you’re so lucky my dad just left,” he begins warily, but she shakes her head, cutting him off.

“We have to go right now. Joaquin tipped Kevin off about something. Evidence off Route 40.” She locks eyes with Jughead. “He says your dad’s being set up by the Blossoms. But we have to go now, or it’ll be too late.”

“How?” Jughead says. “We don’t have a car-,”

“BETTY!” Her mother has thrown open the front door and is staring at her angrily, hands on her hips. “Get back in this house this instant!”

Archie stares at Mom, then at Betty, and raises a red eyebrow. “No,” Betty says immediately, “we can’t-,”

“Hey, Mrs. Cooper!” he steps around her, smiling and waving, as she marches across the street. 

“Get out of my way, Archibald Andrews,” Mom sneers, but Archie steps in front of her.

“How would you like to break the story of the year about who really killed Jason?” he asks seriously, and Mom freezes.

“Mom,” Betty says very quietly. “Please. FP didn’t do it. But we know who did. We just have to prove how and why.” To her surprise, Jughead steps forward and hands something to Mom, and her mother stares down at the ring in the palm of her hand, the Blossom crest on the back.

“Get in the car,” her fingers close around it, and she glances up at them, all traces of Alice Cooper temporarily vanished, and replaced with something, someone, else, young and hungry and unrecognizable to Betty, except for what might be pain in her blue eyes. “All three of you, now, and tell me where to drive.”

It’s a much shorter drive than it was a bike ride, and as soon as the car brakes, Jughead is streaking out the back like the hounds of hell are after him, and Betty and Archie are running after him, tripping and scrambling down the muddy embankment. The burned out car has been taken away by a road crew, and all that remains are a mottled brown and green mix of underbrush. Betty starts tearing through it, looking for something, any sign of a jacket or sweatshirt that might belong to Jason.

Jughead, Archie, and Mom are doing similarly, and this keeps up for nearly twenty minutes before her mother gasps, in either shock or success, Betty doesn’t know. She whirls around and finds her mother dragging a filthy duffle bag out from under a fallen tree trunk, coated in wet leaves and pine needles. 

“Mom, should you-,” But she’s already unzipped it, and the four of them look down at Jason’s varsity jacket. Mom pulls out a pair of gloves from her purse, and then gingerly roots around in the jacket’s pockets, before she freezes, and withdraws what looks like a flash drive.

“What is that?” Archie demands.

“FP Jones’ insurance policy,” Mom says darkly, and then glances at Jughead. “If he’s going to hell, he’s taking us all with him.”

They pass an unmarked black car on the way back into town, and Mom drives a little faster and takes the long way home, until they’re back outside the house. But Dad’s car is there, so she stops and reverses directly into Archie’s driveway. “I’ll be damned in your father takes credit for this,” she says under her breath, and Betty just stares at her, until she hurriedly motions for them all to get out and in the house before he realizes his wife’s car is in Fred Andrews’ driveway.

The flash drive is a video file labeled WYRM-SURVEILL. The footage is grainy, black and white, and the audio scratchy and muffled, but they can make out several figures, moving in and out of the frame. 

“Why don’t you give me and my son a few minutes alone to talk,” Clifford Blossom is saying to FP Jones. FP’s face is shadowed, but he lingers by the stairs. 

“Don’t do anything stupid. He’s still your kid, okay? He made a mistake.” He sounds almost… wary, something FP, in Betty’s experience, rarely is.

“This is why I hired Mustang to pick him up, not you,” Clifford sneers. “There’s no need for you to be down here, Jones. This isn’t your problem.”

“It becomes my problem when you hire one of my guys to do your dirty work without letting me know,” FP snaps. “Sweet Pea almost found him down here last night. You want the cops all over this place? I’m not going down for kidnapping, Blossom. You should have taken the kid back to your place.”

Jason is tied to a chair, head lolling, seemingly unconscious. But as FP stalks upstairs, he rouses.

“Jason,” Clifford sounds like he’s trying to be conciliatory. “We can still sort this out, son. It’s not the end of the world. We’ll get custody of the baby- no one in their right mind would trust that hysterical little slut with a child. You can finish your senior year somewhere else, your mother and I will adopt your son or daughter, and-,”

“Shut up,” Jason rasps. “Just shut up. No. I’m not… I’m leaving, Dad. You can’t keep me here forever. I’m done. With this family, with this town- I’m leaving with Polly, and we’re getting married, and you’re not going to be able to do shit about it. I’m not going to raise my kid to inherit your…” his face twists in a bruised sneer, “drug empire, or-,”

“Jason, you need to understand that this family has relied on-,”

“You’re a dealer, Dad!” Jason yells hoarsely. “Okay? Just admit it! Jesus- you traffic drugs in with the fucking syrup! And I’m not- I don’t want that. I’m not going to take over the ‘family business’, I don’t even- I’m not,” he starts to cry, shoulders bowing, “just let me go, I won’t tell anyone, I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back, so don’t worry about that.”

Clifford turns away from him for a moment, breathing harshly, as if he’s finally realized something. That his son is never going to bow to his whims. “I wish I could trust you, Jason. I really do. But I just can’t take the risk.”

And then he turns around and Betty knows she should look away, sees it coming, and Archie yells and Mom tries to pause the video and Jughead squeezes her shoulder, hard-

And Clifford Blossom shoots his son in the head and the video cuts out there.


	40. Chapter 40

Cheryl takes a long time to answer the phone. The ringing echoes down the hall; she still doesn’t have her cell phone back, but Thornhill has multiple house phones, and the one in the foyer is still on a rotary dial. It jangles shrilly until she picks it up. She doesn’t say anything; her breathing comes in and out ragged through her nose.

“Cheryl?” Veronica Lodge demands on the other end. “Cheryl, are you there? You need to get out of that house. I don’t- Betty called me, she said the cops are on their way- I looked up your number in the phone book,” she adds, and Cheryl recalls that the Pembroke is one of the few places in town that likely still stocks phone books. 

“I’m serious, Cheryl, Betty said something about a video, and your- your dad-,” Cheryl hangs up the phone. Why do people insist on telling her what she already knows? Maybe she knew all along. It wasn’t too hard to piece together, after she and Polly found Jason’s ring in Mother’s jewelry box. Jason would never have given that back willingly. Never. 

But it’s more than that. Her parents’ paranoia. Their refusal to let Polly or her out of the house all weekend. The hushed conversations behind closed doors. She’s still trying to work out whether Mother knew all along, or found out after the fact. How can she sleep in the same bed as the man who murdered her son? Her precious baby boy? 

Cheryl wanders into the dining room trailing her hand against the wood-paneled wall. Mother and Daddy sit at one end of the table, and at the other end sits Polly with a gun. They found that in a box under the bed, after finding the ring. But the box was built for two. Cheryl suspects its twin shot her twin. It’s almost funny. She doubts either are registered, at least not in her father or mother’s names. 

“This is ludicrous,” Mother says shrilly, glancing from stone-faced Polly to dreamy Cheryl. “Polly, darling, put the gun down before you hurt yourself or the baby.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Mrs. Blossom,” Polly’s pale gaze is trained on Daddy, who sits there looking vaguely stunned, as if he’d just been hit over the head. “I just want to know why you did it,” Polly goes on, her tone wavering slightly. “Why did you kill him? He was your son!”

Daddy says nothing, his lips sealed. Cheryl drapes herself over the back of Polly’s chair, massages her fingers into Polly’s shoulders, as if she’s warming her up for something. Murderous foreplay with her dead brother’s girlfriend? Perhaps it’s more likely than you think! That, at least, makes Cheryl smile. All lips, no teeth.

“Polly, you’re not well,” Mother says, shooting desperate glances at Cheryl, who simply smiles blandly at her. “You’re being hysterical. Paranoid. Cheryl, please. Tell her. Your father and I would never lay a finger on you or your brother. This is all some misunderstanding-,”

“They killed him,” Cheryl cuts her off smoothly, “because they couldn’t control him, Polly. You already knew that. He was dead the moment he refused to submit to them again. He was never getting out of Riverdale alive, was he, Daddy?” She likes to imagine that her gaze skewers her father, but for all he reacts, she might as well be gnat flitting around in the far corner of the room.

“Cheryl,” Mother says through her teeth, “stop this nonsense, this instant-,”

“Shoot her, Polly,” Cheryl stage-whispers. Polly doesn’t raise the gun, but her mother flinches all the same, then flushes in rage and fear. 

“Cheryl Marjorie Blossom-,”

“Shoot her,” Cheryl says again, a little louder, and while Polly still makes no sudden moves, only trembles with unshed tears and keeps turning the gun over and over in her hands, Mother still cringes away. Cheryl likes this newfound party trick. Threaten her parents with impending patricide. Fair is fair, after all.

She thinks she hears sirens in the distance, but maybe it’s just the wind. The rain is starting to work itself up into a proper autumn storm. She can hear thunder rumbling in the mountains, like giants passing through. “You should have killed me instead,” she says, mindful of her tone- she sounds truly deranged, she thinks, and she loves it, this is her best role yet- “oh, you really missed your chance, didn’t you? If only you’d pushed a little harder, Daddy- maybe I’d have shacked up with Jughead Jones and you could have ended it all!”

Her father stares at her with something like loathing, and she welcomes it. “You killed him,” Polly sobs aloud, “we were happy, he was so happy, he was going to be a father- you took him away from his babies! My babies!”

“They probably would have killed you too, after you had the twins,” Cheryl perches on the edge of Polly’s seat and examines her nails. “Don’t you think?”

Polly clutches the gun like a lifeline. Daddy tenses in his seat, and she can see him evaluating his options. He might be able to rush them both before Polly can get a shot off- God knows she’s never so much as fired a slingshot before. The question is, is he willing to risk it all for that chance? The sirens are louder now, clearly distinguishable from the wind. 

Mother’s hands are claws on the armrests of her seat. “Clifford,” she says, almost pleadingly, and Daddy stands up.

“Don’t move,” Polly sniffles, raising the gun, and Cheryl resists the urge to pluck it out of her grasp and aim it herself. But she doesn’t trust herself. She might shoot them all, then herself. “Shoot him,” she hisses in her almost sister-in-law’s ear, and now it’s Polly’s turn to shudder. 

Daddy approaches, hands outstretched. “Come on, Polly. Be reasonable. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt. You’re distraught.” He inches ever closer. The sirens are even louder now. Cheryl can hear them at the end of the long, long drive. 

“I’ll kill you,” Polly lies through her too-straight teeth. Cheryl suppresses a shriek of laughter. 

Daddy is only a few feet away now. “Shoot him,” she says through her teeth, but Polly’s shoulders bow and her head dips. It figures she can’t even avenge her dead lover properly. The Coopers have never been very good at following through, have they?

Daddy takes the gun from her almost gently, and Polly sobs even more, allowing him to slip it away from her shaking grip. Then he hits her across the face with it so hard Cheryl hears her nose crack, and she gasps aloud in spite of herself, as Polly crumples against the table and Mother shrieks.

“Oh, you’ve really done it now,” Cheryl hisses, either to him or to herself, and he grabs her by her long, long hair and presses the gun against her temple.

His brown eyes study hers, as if searching for something. “You always asked too many questions for your own good,” Daddy says, and then he takes the gun away and walks quickly out of the room. Cheryl stands there for a few moments, then runs after him, while Mother continues to scream.

She bursts out of the front door just as the squad cars come screeching to a stop outside the house, and Cheryl points blankly in the direction of the barn as the shot rings out. Keller and his men go sprinting in that direction, and Cheryl sets off at a brisk pace for the carport, and has the Chrysler Imperial’s engine purring before any of the cops realize what’s going on. She blows past the squad cars and up the driveway, ignoring the shouts and people racing after her, and through the open gates, down the wooded lane, hair flying around her face, heart pounding.

Cheryl misses the exit for the highway and instead parks down by the river. She sits in the car for a few moments, then rests her hot forehead against the steering wheel until the horn bellows. Then she pulls away, ears ringing, and leaves the car running as she slips out the door and walks down to the river’s edge. The water’s cold enough that it doesn’t even feel like much at all. She slips off her shoes and takes a few cautious steps in, crunching rocks and silt and glass shards from broken bottles underfoot, and then a few steps more.

She inches her way in, and she’s almost to her waist when she hears someone calling her name. Veronica can’t just leave well enough alone, but maybe Cheryl meant to park down near the Pembroke, certainly close enough that someone might have heard the horn and come along, curious. But Veronica has never come along anywhere, she’s standing there in shock, the Gertrude to Cheryl’s Ophelia, watching her craft her own ending to this very depressing, anticlimactic tale.

“Cheryl,” she calls out, “wait.”

Cheryl feels the water seep up under her skirt, spins in place in the muck and mud, smiles weakly at Veronica, the only person who ever cared enough to run after her at that pep rally, and now the only witness. “Jason’s waiting for me,” she says, “and Daddy’s dead so it doesn’t really matter, does it- there’s no one to testify against, they’ll never prove Mother had a hand in it-,” she slips a little, loses her footing, and almost goes under.

The water laps up against her stomach now. Veronica comes down to the bank, hesitates. “Cheryl, please. What- what’s happened is awful, but it doesn’t have to end like this.”

“It’s already over,” Cheryl snorts, and then adds, as if confessing a dirty secret, “and Pretty Polly’s going to need a nose job- oh, he got her good.” She relishes Veronica’s blanch, but she carefully composes her expression once more.

“It’s not over until you say it’s over,” Veronica says, phone in hand. “Cheryl, your family- what happened is unforgivable. But you don’t have to do this. You have your whole life ahead of you. Wouldn’t Jason want you to live for him?”

“Jason didn’t give a damn about me, in the end,” Cheryl muses. “He was stronger than me. I think Daddy and Mother always knew that. It’s a shame they had to kill him. I was the parasite. The weakling. The unwanted-,”

“That’s not true,” Veronica says coldly, clearly. “You know it’s not, Cheryl. Wake up! This isn’t a dream, you’re not in one of your plays, or a movie- come out of the river!”

Now the water is up to her chest, and Cheryl shivers happily. “Why don’t you come in?”

“I know what it’s like to have your family fall to pieces around you, to have your whole life upended because of someone else’s sins,” Veronica raises her voice to heard over the rush of the water. “But you can’t just surrender to it, Cheryl. You’re a fighter. Didn’t you say you were going to find Jason’s killer? You did. We all did. Soon everyone’s going to know the truth. No more lies. No more secrets. Don’t you want to be there?”

“I want to be,” Cheryl leans back, lets the water taste her hair, “anywhere but here.”

She lets it swallow her for a moment, then surfaces. Veronica has waded in up to her knees. “Don’t do this,” she snaps, angrily, and Cheryl is surprised with her anger- what does Veronica care, what does it matter, what does anything matter, anything at all, her life is a nightmare she can never wake up from, Jason’s still gone forever, Polly is getting blood all over Mother’s favorite table-

“I want to go,” she says aloud. “I just want to go now. I’m tired.” And she is. She wants to shut her eyes and drift away. Is that a song? It feels like it should be. She hums ‘Down By The River’ under her breath. 

Veronica wades even further in, stretches out her hand. “Cheryl, come on. Come out of the water.” The current’s strong, and only getting stronger as the rain starts to come down heavy, the wind begins to lash.

“That was our mistake,” Cheryl smiles blearily at her. “We never should have come out of the river once we went in.” She kicks up her legs, goes under once more, and the current rips her away. Distantly, she hears Veronica yelling, but it’s all topsy turvy under here, and it doesn’t matter at all. She can pretend she is doing cartwheels in the circus like when she and Jason were small and-

And after that, it’s curtains.

Presently, she wakes up in a too-white room in a scratchy shift with an IV throbbing in the back of her hand. Her eyelids feel sticky and her hair smells like cleaning products. Machines are beeping nearby. She almost slips away again, and then focuses on the two figures at her bedside. Betty is pale and drawn and Polly’s nose is heavily bandaged. 

“I-,” Cheryl can’t form her words properly. Her tongue feels too thick.

“You washed up down river,” Betty says quietly, and reaches out to take her hand. Cheryl wants to jerk away but can’t. Betty seems to realize this, and let’s go. “You wanted Veronica to try to stop you,” she says after a moment. “You could have gone in anywhere. But you did it fifty yards from the Pembroke. You didn’t want to die, Cheryl.”

Cheryl bares her teeth at her wordlessly, and Polly just shakes her head, puts a hand on Betty’s shoulder, and leaves the room.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Betty says. “I’m so sorry about Jason, Cheryl, and your dad. We all are. But it’s going to be okay.”

It is not okay, and it has not been okay, but Cheryl feels tears well up in her eyes, and she just sinks into the pillow, and lets them trickle out, and Betty Cooper watches her cry for a few moments, before leaving as well, and it is a long time before Cheryl is present enough to look over at the GET WELL SOON cards scattered on her bedside table. 

Tentatively, she reaches for one, and with some difficulty opens it.

IT HURTS LESS AND LESS EVENTUALLY Archie Andrews has written under the trite Hallmark saying, in his typical atrocious penmanship, and she stares at the lonely smiley face he has scrawled after his message for a few minutes in silence. She can almost believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends my rough retelling of Season One. I hope this is not the last we see of the characters, as I'd like to cover some of the plot of Season 2 and give the gang a chance to spread their roots a little more. Ideally this would be a 3-part series, but what I can guarantee right now is that the (much, much shorter) sequel/prequel to this fic will take place in the 90s/early 2000s and cover the relationship(s) between FP, Alice, and Gladys (and maybe a few other people). Following that, I'd like to get back into modern day-Riverdale and deal with some Bughead, Varchie, Serpents, the Black Hood, and Hiram Lodge's shady business. So stay tuned.


End file.
